


The Prisoner of the Mind Affair - (a MFU/Prisoner crossover)

by Avery11, spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Gen, MFU/Prisoner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 10:36:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, there was a place called The Village.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prisoner of the Mind Affair - (a MFU/Prisoner crossover)

**Author's Note:**

> We wish to thank Sparky955 for her beta work on this, her feedback, and her encouragement. I wish to thank Avery11 for an incredible writing experience and to my hubby for his Prisoner knowledge and suggestions.
> 
> In this story Spikesgirl58 writes for Illya and Avery11 writes for Napoleon. We both hope you will enjoy this!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     [ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/85114)

 

**Chapter 1**

Once upon a time, there was a place –“

“I am a little old for fairy tales.”

“Not this kind of fairy tale. I will start again. So, once upon a time there was a place.”

“What was it called, this place?”

“It had no real name. It was simply referred to as The Village. It was a special place."

"Special, how?"

"From the outside, it seemed a bucolic and peaceful place. Happy, blissful even, but it hid a terrible secret.”

“What secret?”

“You see, it was a place where you put things…and people.

“If it was so terrible, why didn’t they just leave?”

“They couldn’t. Not until the ones who put them there got what they wanted.”

"And what did they want, these people in charge?”

“Information.”

“What sort of information?”

“Anything and everything. World-changing events, state secrets, or possibly why they turned left one morning instead of right on the way to work.”

“So these people were stuck in this village and…what? Tortured for what they knew?”

“In some cases. Tricked, drugged, or manipulated in others. Some, however, were there simply because they wanted to leave their old life behind and find peace and security. Outsiders never threatened The Village. Rover saw to that.”

“Who is Rover?”

“A horrible beast that attacks and retrieves its victims by first consuming them and then regurgitating them at a pre-designated point.”

“It sounds messy. However, I’m still confused. Who are you and why are you telling me all of this?”

“I am a free man. A better question might be, where is Napoleon? Be seeing you.”

*

Illya woke and sat up, gasping as pain shot through him. Almost immediately, Nellie was by his side, easing him back down onto the hospital bed.

“It’s okay, Illya. Calm down.” She wrung out a cloth and used it to wipe the sweat from Illya’s face. “You were just dreaming. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. That was how we knew you were finally coming out of your coma.”

“C…co…” Illya coughed. His throat was raw, as though he hadn't spoken in years. He coughed again, and Nellie offered him a glass of water and a straw. The water was cool against the inflamed tissue, but Illya knew better than to gulp. “Coma?” he whispered.

“For nearly a month.” She set the glass aside.

Illya looked at the empty chair beside the bed. “Nellie, where is Napoleon?”

“On vacation. He left two days ago. He was getting in the way of the doctors, so Waverly ordered him out. Don’t you remember?”

No, he didn’t. He didn’t remember anything, in fact, of getting hurt or being brought here. The harder he tried to remember, the fuzzier the images became. _Fire?_

“Nellie, was I in a fire?”

“A fire? Good heavens, no. You were captured by THRUSH in Istanbul. It took Napoleon a month to track you down and rescue you. We were all so worried.”

They weren’t the only ones. This entire story felt wrong. For one thing, Napoleon leaving his side was utterly out of character, no matter who gave the order. Illya wondered if something had happened to his partner and they weren’t telling him. “Nellie, may I have my communicator?”

“Well, I shouldn’t, but okay.” She walked to a small closet and pulled the slender, pen-like instrument from a jacket pocket. It reassured him to see his suit hanging there. “I know you won’t rest until you’ve talked to him, but don’t tire yourself out. Keep it short.”

“Thanks.” He let his fingers linger on hers for a moment. That usually brought a delightful blush to Nellie’s cheeks, but this time it only earned him a smile. He smiled back, keeping his concern hidden deep inside, and brought the communicator to his lips. “Open Channel D, please. Napoleon, are you there.”

The answer was immediate. “Solo here.”

Illya was startled by the abruptness of the tone. “I...I was just checking in to let you know I was awake.”

“Good to know. Now get some rest. Doctor Solo’s orders. Solo out.”

The communicator went dead in his hand. Illya stared at it. “That was...brief.” He dropped the communicator back onto the bed.

Nellie made a motion to retrieve it, then stopped at Illya’s glare. Instead she brushed the hair off his forehead, and pressed a cool hand to it. “You still have a slight fever. Are you hungry?”

Now that the subject came up, he was. “A little.”

“I’ll go see what I can rustle up for you. We need to put a little meat on your bones.”

Illya watched her walk from the room and then immediately brought the communicator back to his lips. “Open Channel D, please.”

Almost instantly, Napoleon’s voice answered again. “Solo here.”

That tone again! “Where are you? I had an odd dream and I’d like to hear your interpretation.”

“Good to know. Now get some rest. Doctor Solo’s orders. Solo out.”

Illya frowned at his communicator.  A shot of fear clamped his stomach into a painful knot. He stashed it between the mattress and the edge of the bed frame _. Where was Napoleon? Hell, where was he?_

*/*/*/

 

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/70408)

 

  **Chapter 2**

Hot. It was hot. A thousand degrees, at least. Ten thousand. Napoleon could feel the fire sizzling around him, singing the hairs on his skin, relentless waves of heat, drawing closer, burning, burning. It was hard to breathe. _Illya! Where was Illya?_ He tried to call out, but it turned into a cough, a wretched hacking that went on and on, leaving him weak and exhausted when it finally passed.

He opened his eyes.

The noonday sun beat down upon his outstretched body, white hot, blindingly bright. The sky was a clear and brilliant blue. A flock of ibises passed above him in graceful V formation, calling to one another.

_Where – ? I thought – There was a fire, and –_

His skin felt flushed, feverish. It was hard to think. He tried to sit up, but his muscles turned to jelly and he collapsed, sending a litter of empty beer bottles clattering across the teakwood deck. _Pursang,_ he thought. _I'm aboard the Pursang._ He could smell the sea.

He made it to vertical on the second try, and felt his stomach lurch in protest. His mouth was parched, cottony-dry; his head throbbed without mercy. He rubbed a calloused hand along his jaw, feeling the days-old growth of stubble. He reeked of sweat and booze.

_Must've been a hell of  party._

He made a halfhearted attempt to orient himself. The familiar trappings of the _Pursang_ were reassuring, sails properly stowed, everything shipshape. The sloop was moored inside a quiet bay, the water a stunning shade of turquoise. He could see a pair of small islands off the port bow, and another, larger one a half-mile to starboard. Colorful clapboard houses dotted the perimeter of the larger island.

_The Caribbean? No, the Florida Keys. That's the Key West Lighthouse over there._

Napoleon realized that he had no idea how he'd gotten there, or even what day it was. All he had to go by was a series of disjointed images of his time aboard the _Pursang._ He remembered setting sail in the dead of night, the gallant sloop hugging the barrier islands along the New Jersey coast. Sailing down the Delaware Canal to the Chesapeake, beset by stiff winds, swift currents and six-foot tides. Following the Ditch – the Intercoastal Waterway – along the edge of the Everglades. 

_How many days ago was that? A week? And before that –?_

The mission to London. 

His head throbbed.

_No, don't think about it don't –_

The assignment had been a difficult one – plant a series of monitoring devices on the person and in the lodgings of one Bram Visconti, THRUSH's newest _wunderkindt._ Bell the cat, so to speak.

Illya had been delighted with the challenge. Visconti was a computer genius with advanced degrees in medicine, particle physics, applied sciences and drama. The thought of matching wits with an intellectual equal for a change, instead of the usual THRUSH morons, had the Russian acting like a schoolboy on holiday.

“This _will_ be fun!” he declared as they sat in their room at the Dorchester, plotting the best way to slip past the security protocols protecting Visconti's London townhouse. Napoleon had been somewhat less convinced of the entertainment value of the mission, but kept silent, reluctant to spoil Illya's obvious pleasure.

They'd gotten in easily. Too easily, as it turned out. They'd planted the spyware with little trouble, but Illya had tripped an alarm while sifting through the blueprints of an ersatz doomsday weapon Visconti had conveniently left for them to find. Suddenly, the entire apartment was ablaze, as though it had been doused in kerosene, fire engulfing the furniture, the curtains, the walls, in a matter of seconds.

“Forget the blueprints! Illya --”

But Illya wasn't there. Napoleon turned and saw him, trapped behind a searing wall of flame a dozen feet away. He started toward him, ready to charge into Hell and back if that was what it took to reach his friend.

Illya shook his head, and pointed upward. The ceiling was on fire, support beams groaning and crackling as they began to give way.  A shower of cinders fell upon his golden hair. Their eyes met in an instant of perfect understanding. “Go,” he shouted.

“No! I won't –!”

The ceiling fell in with a terrible roar, and Illya was gone.

Seconds. A matter of seconds.

“A trap,” Alexander Waverly had acknowledged at the debriefing, “brilliantly designed. It was obviously meant to take the pair of you out.” He sighed. “Regrettable, about Mr. Kuryakin, a real loss to UNCLE. Thank heaven you were able to escape, Mr. Solo. It would have been a tragedy to lose you both.”

 _Thank heaven? Curse heaven! Fuck heaven._ Napoleon staggered to his feet, head pounding, and went in search of another beer.

It was cooler below deck, and blessedly dark. He opened the refrigerator and seized the remaining bottle of Heineken. He popped the cap on the galley tool and took a long swig, relishing the coolness on his burning throat. _Better._ He dug the bottle of aspirin out of his dresser, and shook two tablets into his palm. He stared at them for a long time. In the end, he returned them to the bottle. He wanted to feel the pain.

Illya was dead. Burned to death. There hadn't even been enough of him left to bury.

The funeral had been a quiet one – all UNCLE funerals were quiet – Napoleon couldn't recall much about it. Afterward, a bevy of Soviet generals had sequestered themselves behind closed doors with Waverly, railing against the loss of the agent they had so trustingly placed under his care, and against Solo, for his alleged mismanagement of the Affair. The meeting had gone on for hours. They'd left eventually, mollified by whatever bargain The Old Man had managed to strike.

“Take some time off, Mr. Solo,” Waverly had ordered once the Soviet brass had been escorted from the building. “Your lungs need time to heal, and so does your heart. Mourn. Rage. Get your head straight.” He paused to light his pipe. “I can give you a month. It will take that long to evaluate potential partners to replace Mr. Kuryakin. ”

The thought made Napoleon want to throw up. _No one can replace Illya._

He'd gone to his apartment, packed a duffle, and boarded the _Pursang_ that night, destination unknown _._

 _Destination, who the hell cares?_ He peered at the beer bottle in his hand. Empty. When had that happened? He supposed he'd have to go ashore and buy more.

*/*/*/

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/84385)

 

**Chapter 3**

“Once upon a time, there was a Village.”

“You already told me this story.”

“Some stories bear repeating until the lesson is learned. This is one of them.”

“Where is this Village?”

“No one knows exactly. That’s what makes it both a safe haven and an insidious prison.”

“How do you know Napoleon is there?”

“I didn’t say he was. Now, let me go on, please.”

“Yes, yes, the Village.”

“In it, you must not trust anyone, not even people you trusted before.”

“I will always trust Napoleon; he is my partner.”

“Is he?”

“Yes.”

“Believe nothing you are told. Believe nothing you are shown.”

“Is there an end to this uplifting little tale of yours?”

“Death.”

*

Illya forced himself awake. He was dripping with sweat, and his breath was coming in painful gasps. His throat felt as if someone had taken steel wool to it. Yet there was no sign that he’d been on a respirator or even an IV solution. However he was still in bed in Medical. _Wait… what did his dream say? Trust nothing? Was he in Medical?_

Illya reached out and put a hand to the wall behind the bed. _Smooth stucco_. He frowned. The walls in Medical were metal. Everything in UNCLE HQ was metal.

He felt as if an incredible weight was holding him in bed, but he was so weak, so tired, it took him two attempts to flip the sheets back. Heavy plaster casts enveloped both of his legs from the knees down. He sat up and touched one of the casts with tentative fingers. He couldn’t remember getting hurt, although he recalled heat and Napoleon shouting. Why couldn’t he remember?

“They broke your legs after you tried to escape.” Nellie was standing in the doorway, holding a tray with a glass of water and some medicine on it. She set it down on the bedside table. “THRUSH was pretty annoyed with you.”

Illya raised the hem of his hospital gown, expecting to see bruising. Aside from a catheter, there was nothing amiss. “It doesn’t look like it.”

She pushed Illya back against the pillow and pulled up the sheets to his chest. “You’ve been unconscious for a long time, Illya. That’s why all your bruising is gone.” There was something odd to Nellie’s voice, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. “You’re all sweaty. How about a nice sponge bath?”

Illya was about to decline when he spotted the bouquet of flowers on the nightstand beside the bed. Nellie followed his look and smiled prettily at him. “Aren’t they lovely?”

“Who sent them?”

“Napoleon. He was very worried after your call. They came in while you were asleep.”

“Take them away, please.” If Napoleon was worried, he’d be at Illya’s side. This wasn't right. His dream had urged him to trust no one.

“I’d… I’d rather not. They brighten the room so.” She turned away from him and Illya caught her hand. “I’m just going to get the things for your bath,” she murmured and pulled free. “I’ll be right back.”

Alarm bells were going off in his head. Something was wrong… no, everything was wrong. However, until his casts were removed… Again, his dream floated back to him. _Trust nothing._

Watching the door, Illya reached for the casts under the cover of his sheets. To his surprise, one of them shifted under his touch. He grumbled, as though he was trying to scratch an itch, a normal reaction to a plastered limb. Running his hand down his leg, he felt a broad strap. _His legs were strapped and then a plaster shell placed over them? What the hell was going on?_

A noise at the door made him lay back. Nellie re-entered carrying a basin, towels and a fresh gown. “This will make you feel better.”

“Getting out of bed would make me feel better.”

“Sadly, you have another week before those casts come off. Then you’ll be off to physical therapy for a bit.” She squeezed out the sponge and, set it aside while she adjusted the back of the bed. “How are you feeling overall?”

“Weak as a newborn.” It wasn’t a lie. Illya felt as if he had barely enough strength to breathe. That’s when he happened to glance down. His inner elbow had so many pin pricks in it that it looked as if it had a rash. _Trust no one, not even someone you trusted before._ His eyes narrowed.

Nellie didn't seem to notice. She was busy washing his back. “You’re awake more and more now. We'll get you something a bit more substantial than glucose and broth into you, and that will help.”

“That feels good. Do you think you could wash my hair as well?” Nellie loved washing Illya’s hair and Illya knew she would jump at the chance.

Her hand paused at his question. He felt it rather than saw it. “I’ll...have to check to see what the doctor says.”

“Forget the doctor, Nellie.” Illya let his voice become soft, almost a purr. “When did we ever take stock in what doctors said?” He caught her hand and pulled her close.

“Perhaps it’s time we did.” Nellie’s eyes flashed and Illya got the message. He released her.

“All right. If you insist. Have you heard from Napoleon?”

“No. His last message was that he was sunning himself in the Florida Keys with a bevy of lovely ladies. I should probably get some penicillin ready for him, just in case.”

Illya nodded, never letting on how odd her sentence struck him. Yes, Napoleon played free and easy with the women, but he always practiced safe sex. UNCLE demanded it, and Nellie knew it. Illya let her finish her task without speaking. His mind, however, was racing.

“There! All done.” She dried him and smiled. “Let me get this put away and I’ll bring you something from the Canteen. Any requests?”

“Something edible… And no lime Jell-O.”

She laughed, a hollow, empty sound, and then she was gone. Illya stared at the flowers, calculating his next move. Usually it wouldn’t be much of a challenge, but he wasn’t lying about his lack of energy. The exploration of his phony casts had left him drained to the point of exhaustion.

He reached out to finger the closest flower and then with a yell, he flailed his hand. The bouquet went flying, crashing to the floor.

Nellie was there in a heartbeat. _Canteen, indeed,_ Illya thought.

“What happened?”

“A bee!” Illya tried to put the right amount of panic in his voice. “I saw a bee.” He pulled the sheet up to his neck as if it would protect him.

“In here?” She looked around, confused, then she knelt to pick up the fallen vase. “Where?”

“It was in the flowers. I heard it buzzing. Remember when we had bees here before. They were killers. I nearly died, remember? Take it away, Nellie!”

“I’d nearly forgotten. You certainly had a bad reaction to those stings, didn’t you?”

Illya had never been stung, and now he knew that whoever this person was, it was not his Nellie.

“Are you certain it was a bee?”

“Yes! I won’t be able to rest until you take them away.” Illya looked around the walls as if terrified by the thought that they might be invaded again. She was confused, but nodded.

“All right, all right, just calm down. You agents and your quirks…” She carried the vase out and the door whispered shut behind her. That’s when Illya noticed the difference in the sounds. The doors at UNCLE opened and closed on their own, but there was always a slight squeak. The squeak was missing.

Illya fell back onto his pillows with a sigh. He didn’t remember how he got here, but right now he had a more urgent need – getting out of here. Wherever here was… _Where the hell is Napoleon? He should be here by now._

_*/*/*/_

**Chapter 4**

Napoleon stared at his reflection in the _Pursang's_ tiny vanity mirror, wondering whether to bother shaving. He'd showered and changed clothes, but the thought of scraping off several days' accumulation of stubble seemed unimportant somehow. In the end, he decided that it wasn't worth the effort. Tossing his shaving kit back into the cabinet, he climbed the wooden stairs to the deck, powered up the _Pursang's_ reserve engine, and steered the little sloop toward the largest of the three neighboring islands.

Key West in April was a bustling tourist spot, the little village crammed with snowbirds enjoying the final moments of their winter getaway before heading back North. The streets were crowded – expats and hippies, more of them every year, tuning in, dropping out. Refugees from Castro's revolution. College students on Spring Break, ambling by with their surfboards and scuba gear. Pale-skinned tourists in Bermuda shorts lining up to purchase tickets for a glass bottom boat excursion, or buying souvenirs from the vendors hawking their wares on the street corners of Old Town.

A hot pink moped whizzed by, barely missing Napoleon as it swerved in and out of traffic on the way to God knew where. Once, he would have followed its progress with eagle eyes, alert for the possibility of a THRUSH ambush. Now, it scarcely seemed to matter.

He paused briefly to watch a pair of men playing chess on the veranda of the Marquesa Hotel. He was struck by the easy familiarity of their friendship, the way their eyes sparkled with mirth. One of the men made a move – Queen's Knight takes Rook, check – and the other laughed and shook his head _._ _Illya used to do that,_ Napoleon remembered, _make me think I was winning the match, and then broadside me with some unexpected move._ The realization that he was beginning to think of Illya in the past tense saddened him. He turned away, crossing onto Duval Street in search of a market where he could buy beer.

As the afternoon waned, the buskers began to make their appearance – colorfully dressed jugglers and white-faced mimes, bongo drummers and deadbeat poets. He passed a drunken guitar player massacring a Buffy St. Marie song, his guitar case laid open on the ground in hopes of a donation. “Memories don't make it easy,” he sang. “Goodnight, wherever you are sleeping...” Napoleon tossed a handful of coins in his direction and moved on.

“Psychic readings, five dollars,” someone called. Napoleon turned in surprise. _The accent was achingly familiar. Ukrainian?_

The woman sat upon the bare ground, a Rider-Waite Tarot deck spread before her on a purple cloth. She looked to be in her sixties, with grizzled white hair and sharp blue eyes. She wore a long, full skirt and peasant blouse; a batik scarf capped the crown of her hair. Cheap baubles graced her wrists and bare ankles, jingling whenever she moved.

She noticed his attention, and her smile broadened. “I am Esmeralda. Ask any question. The stars will answer.”

Napoleon shook his head. “No thanks, I'm not --”

“I can help you find him,” she replied in a curious sing-song.

He felt chilled, despite the heat of the day. “Find who?”

“The one you lost. I can help you find him.”

All at once, a fierce anger surged in his heart. He wanted to rail at the old woman, tell her to mind her goddamned business, that the stars couldn't raise the dead.

She smiled as though she'd heard every word. “Sit. We shall see what the stars can do.”

He told himself it was the accent, so reminiscent of Illya's, the lovely, precise consonants and the broad, melodic vowels. Napoleon sat down, folding his legs under him. He took out a five dollar bill and handed it over. “What the hell,” he said.

She gathered up the Tarot cards and passed them to Napoleon. “Mix them,” she said. “Think of a question. You do not need to tell me.”

He did as she instructed, already feeling foolish at having been sucked into this old woman's con.

She laid out six cards in a pyramid formation, and lifted the first card. “The Five of Cups. You have lost someone very close to you. It feels hopeless. You doubt your ability to ever find this person again.”

 _Oh, for Christ's sake!_ Napoleon rose to leave. “Keep the five dollars, lady. If it's all the same to you, I'll –”

She turned over the second card. “Ah, the Page of Swords. This card signifies your missing friend. A young man with a talent for keeping secrets. A spy.”

Napoleon stopped in his tracks. “What did you say?”

“From somewhere far away, I think. A friend, a very good friend. Almost a brother, yes? Young, idealistic, intelligent, courageous in the face of danger, with a strong sense of –” She searched for the word. “ – nobility.” She peered curiously at Napoleon. “Does this describe the man you seek?”

He nodded, his mind racing. _Who was this woman? Could she be THRUSH?_ _But to what purpose?_ He sat down again, and forced his mind to focus.

She turned over the third card, and her face clouded. “The Eight of Swords. There is much darkness around him. Dark energy, and danger. Powerful forces oppose him.”

 _Not anymore,_ Napoleon thought bitterly. _Illya was beyond their reach now._

The fourth card. “The Moon. Beware of falsehood, lies, double dealings, illusions. I would interpret this to mean that your friend is alive, but that someone means for you to think otherwise.”

His hands balled into fists. “That's enough! Illya is dead. A fire. I – I saw it happen.”

Esmeralda shrugged. “Who is to say whether what you saw was real?”

“I felt the flames, for godssake!” He was trembling now.

“And yet, a gifted magician can create a believable illusion.”

 _Was it possible?_ Napoleon inhaled sharply. _No. He had seen – Had felt – And yet the old woman's remarks were eerily accurate. Could he afford to ignore them?_ “Fine. Let's say for the moment that I believe you. Where is he? Who has him?”

The old woman nodded, and turned over the fifth card. “The Emperor, reversed. His captors seek to control him, dominate him, force him to conform. They wield a great deal of power.”

She turned over the final card, and her face grew grim. “The Nine of Swords, reversed. Hopelessness, despair, torment. He is at their mercy. The outcome is uncertain.” She shuddered. “I am sorry. I cannot tell you more. You may have your money back if you wish.” She moved to gather up the cards.

 _Could what the woman was saying be true? Could Illya be alive?_ A small flame ignited in his heart. “Wait. Can I ask another question?”

After a moment she nodded, and handed the cards over. “Choose three cards.”

Napoleon shuffled the deck. _Is Illya alive?_ he asked silently. He handed three cards to Esmeralda.

She placed them face down on the cloth, and turned over the first card. “The Magician.” She smiled. “This signifies you. The Magician has many talents at his disposal. The road ahead will require all of them – all your powers of skill and concentration. Free yourself of doubt. Know that you have the inner resources necessary to complete your task.”

She reached for the second card. “The Hanged Man. Interesting. In order to prevail, you will need to let go of the world your eyes tell you to see, and believe in the world your intuition tells you is true. Like the man on the card, who hangs upside down, you must be ready to shift your perspective in order to see what must be seen.”

Esmeralda lifted the final card. “The Fool. Yes, of course. The Fool is a rule breaker. He ignores convention, chooses the unexpected, what others might call the foolish path. See how, in the picture, he steps confidently into the unknown -- literally steps off a cliff into the sea? The Fool can do this because he has perfect faith in his ability to walk on water. If you wish an answer to your question, you must have sufficient faith in your abilities to take the Fool's path.”

Napoleon's head was swimming. He didn't know what to think, or what the answers meant. He only knew that there was something, a hope within him, that had not been there ten minutes ago. He seized onto it as though it were a lifeline.

Esmeralda closed her eyes, muttering a series of words in an unfamiliar language. She appeared to be listening to something, or to someone. She nodded once, twice. “You have friends in high places,” she said. “Call upon them in your need.”

 _High places? Waverly?_ “But where –?”

She opened her eyes. “There is an island, forgotten in its obscurity, not found on any but the oldest maps. A warm place, almost tropical, in a part of the world that should not be. Mountainous terrain, lush vegetation, seemingly remote. There is a village on the coast, very beautiful, with flowers, and perhaps even a palm tree or two. Your friend is there.”

He pressed a wad of bills into the old woman's hand. “Thank you,” he said.

“I will pray for your success,” she replied solemnly.

Napoleon hurried back along Duval Street to the marina, his original errand all but forgotten. In his haste, he failed to notice the tall, slim gentleman in undertaker's weeds shadowing him as he made his way down the busy thoroughfare.

*/*/*/

**Chapter 5**

“Once upon a…”

“NO!” Illya forced his eyes open and looked wildly around the room. He was alone and still in Medical. He had no idea how much time had passed. This alone told Illya he was being drugged. From the window… wait… had there been a window before? He couldn’t remember.

Illya looked around the room. It was the same, but slightly different. Not enough for someone untrained to notice, but for someone like…

Nellie came running in, her face flushed. “Illya, what’s wrong?”

“Where am I?” He struggled to stay conscious. Images swirled before him and his stomach abruptly protested. Without a thought, he leaned over the side of the bed and began to vomit. Nellie grabbed a basin and held it for him. She stroked his back.

Wave after wave of nausea ripped through him until there was nothing but bile and then not even that. Illya fell back, exhausted, but feeling more alert than he’d felt in days. It was as if his body had gotten rid of whatever toxins had been pumped into his system.

Nellie carried the basin to the bathroom room and returned with a damp washcloth, a glass of water, a clean basin, and towel. She offered the water to him and he rinsed out his mouth, spitting into the basin. He didn’t even trust the water at the moment.

He passed the glass back to her. She tried to wipe his face, but he pushed her away.

“Leave me alone. I don’t know who or what you are, but leave me alone.”

“Illya, you’re raving. You know me. I’m Nellie.”

“Prove it! What’s the color of the rug in your bathroom?” He always gave her a bad time about that rug. It was Pepto Bismol pink.

Nellie’s face paled and she looked away. “You’re just having a bad reaction to the pain medication. It happens sometimes. It can make you sick and confused.”

“Where’s Waverly?”

“In a meeting.”

“What about Mark? Or April? Or Don or Lewis or Steven or a half dozen other agents I haven’t seen in here? Where’s Jessie? She’s usually here when the IV bag is changed. Where’s anyone else?”

“Medical is a busy place. As for Mark and April, they're on assignment, and Jessie got married last weekend. Don was here, but you were asleep. You sleep a lot...most people do when their bodies are trying to heal.”

“An explanation for every question. Fine. Explain these.” He threw back the sheets and tore the plaster shells from his legs. 

"Illya, I..."

Two men entered and the nurse went white. One of them, the taller man, was carrying a crow bar. “No, please, I tried… don’t, please, don’t… It’s not my fault!”

“Of course it’s not your fault, Nurse.” She inched toward the door, but the shorter of the two men blocked her path.

Illya struggled to get the straps off his legs. If he could just get free, he could...

The fist caught Illya under the chin, and his head slammed backwards into the headboard. His vision swam.

The shorter man dragged Nellie from the room. Illya flinched as the taller man slammed the crowbar against the nightstand, shattering it. He guessed his legs were next… if he was lucky. But the blow never came.

The shorter man returned alone. He moved quickly around the room, fiddling with things here and there. A picture hanger, a light bulb, a piece of furniture. “Okay, Number Six, you’re clear, but there isn't much time. Talk fast.” He slipped out the door, locking it behind him.

The tall man...Number Six?...approached the bed. “Okay, Kuryakin, listen and listen good. Your partner is in danger.” The man looked around and slammed the crow bar into a wall. “Scream like you mean it.” Illya screamed. “To save him, you need to play along for the time being. Again.” Illya screamed a second time. “The nurse is a victim like you, but she’s been programmed, and will do whatever they say. Don’t eat the meat and don’t take the pink pills. They're what’s making you weak.”

“I…” Illya choked and struggled upright to vomit again.

“Good, get it out of your system.” From a jacket pocket, he took a vial of blood. He trickled it over the bedsheets. “You've been dealt with. You'll need to act like it you've been beaten.”

“The nurse will know…”

“She's been brainwashed. She will believe whatever they tell her to believe. Whatever _I_ tell her to believe.”

“And Napoleon…?”

“He has information that they want. They're using you as bait to reel him in. Once they have him, they'll never let him go until they've sucked every bit of information from his head.”

“You work for them?”

“They think I do. There are times when it's easiest to effect change from within. I'll keep you safe as long as I can.”

“But where am I?”

The man smiled. “Once upon a time, there was a Village.”

“You! You’re the one from my dreams!”

"Of course." The man tapped a hand to his brow, a kind of salute. “Be seeing you.”

*/*/*/

**Chapter 6**

Napoleon contacted the Harbormaster – who was none too pleased at having his dinner disturbed – and arranged to rent a boat slip for the _Pursang._ Once that was done, he hailed a taxi to the Key West Airport, where his UNCLE credentials short-listed him onto a Pan Am flight leaving for La Guardia within the hour. He bought a cup of coffee to help him stay awake, and sought out a secluded corner of the terminal. Once he was certain he wasn't being observed, he activated his communicator.

“Open Channel D, Communications. Solo here.”

The technician's gasp was audible. “Mr. Solo? Oh, my goodness, how are you? I mean – Well, we all feel so – and we thought –” She cleared her throat. “Sorry, sir. How may we assist you?”

“It's all right, Mildred. Patch me through to April Dancer, will you?” He sipped his coffee while he waited for the relay to go through.

“Napoleon?” April's warm contralto crackled across the airwaves. “Is everything all right? Where are you?”

“About to board Pan Am Flight 106 out of Key West, headed back to New York.”

“Key West? Mmm, sounds nice. How was the weather down there?”

“Hot.” Napoleon took a deep breath. “Listen – I hate to ask, but can you and Mark pick me up at the airport? I should be getting into La Guardia around midnight. ”

“Midnight? And you want _both_ of us to pick you up?” A pause. He could hear the wheels turning in April's clever brain. “What's going on, Napoleon?”

“I'll explain when I see you. Can you do it?”

“Yes, of course. You know I will. But –”

“Thanks, April. I knew I could count on you.”

A soft sigh. “Always.”

A series of chimes announced the start of the boarding process.

“They're calling my flight,” Napoleon said quickly, to avoid having to answer more questions. “I promise I'll explain everything when I see you. Solo, out.”

He stepped into line behind an odd little gentleman in a bowler hat and morning coat. The fellow nodded a silent greeting, and returned to reading his newspaper, a pitifully thin rag called The Tally Ho.

 _Not enough news in there to fill a thimble,_ Napoleon thought, and handed his ticket to the stewardess.

*

True to their word, April and Mark were waiting by the gate when Napoleon's flight arrived. April flew into his arms, her fingers tracing the lines of fatigue at the corners of his eyes, and the growth of stubble along his jawline. If she was alarmed by his rather disreputable appearance, she was careful not to show it.

“Oh, Napoleon” she declared, “It's good to see you.” “Mark and I were worried when we got your message.  It was all _très_ mysterious.”

He held up a hand. “Not here. Let's go back to my apartment.”

April and Mark exchanged a look. “No problem, mate,” Mark replied for the two of them. “We'll just collect your luggage and –”

“I don't have any luggage.”

April did a double take. “No luggage? The Napoleon Solo I know travels with a full wardrobe of hand-tailored suits.”

“There wasn't time to pack.”

April's brow furrowed.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Mark declared, striving to keep the conversation light. “Okay, mate, let's go find a place to talk. I'm dying to find out what all the mystery's about.”

April looked as though she wanted to say something more, but Napoleon turned toward the exit, neatly forestalling the attempt.

*

“Enough,” April declared in her no-nonsense voice the moment they reached Napoleon's apartment. “You've been stonewalling us ever since your phone call. What the hell is going on?”

“I think you might need to sit down for this,” Napoleon replied. He waited while they took seats on the sectional sofa. “What I'm going to tell you might sound crazy –” He shook his head. “Hell, I'm not even sure I believe it myself –”

“Napoleon –”

He took a deep breath. “I think Illya may be alive.”

They stared at him in shock. April's hand flew to her mouth; her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Napoleon, you poor dear!” She reached over to console him, but he shook her off.

“I don't need sympathy,” he growled. “I need your help.” His features softened. “And for the record, I am not crazy.”

“Oh, sweetie, of course you're not. It's the grief talking, that's all.” She reached for her communicator. “Why don't you let me put in a call to Medical and –”

“Please, April, hear me out.”

She glanced at Mark, who shrugged his agreement.

Napoleon knew he had one chance to convince them. He had to make every word count. “If you think about it,” he began carefully, “the coroner never actually identified the body in the townhouse as Illya's.”

April sighed. “Because there wasn't much left after the fire. Forgive me, Napoleon.”

“Exactly. The body was so damaged, they weren't able to use fingerprints or dental records to confirm the identity.”

“They didn't need dental records. You were there, a dozen feet away. You saw him die.”

“Did I? I'm not so sure anymore.”

April's voice was kind. “It's natural to want to believe the impossible, love, but you have to face facts. The body in the townhouse was Illya's. The recovery team found his ring in the ashes, and that funny medallion he always wore.”

“Those could have been planted on the body afterward.”

“I suppose, but why go to all that trouble? What purpose would it serve?”

Napoleon shrugged. “To make us believe Illya was dead, so we wouldn't bother looking for him.”

“That's a rather convoluted scenario, don't you think?”

He was losing them; he could feel them pulling away. _Think!_ “Okay, how about this: Illya's ring was fourteen karat gold. Why didn't it melt in the fire?”

April appeared startled by the question. “I don't –”

“Gold melts at eighteen-hundred-fifty degrees Fahrenheit. The fire was estimated to be well over two-thousand degrees. Why didn't Illya's jewelry melt?”

She had no answer for that.

Napoleon took a deep breath. “I think someone kidnapped Illya, and planted a false body in the townhouse for us to find. I think whoever did it wants us to believe Illya died in that fire.”

He watched April process the new information. Her eyes narrowed; she frowned in concentration as she tried to make the puzzle pieces fit. “I'll admit you've got a point about the jewelry,” she replied at last. “I don't know how we missed that. Still –”

Napoleon waited, hardly daring to hope.

“– we'd need proof of your allegations before we could take this to Waverly. Something more substantive than guesswork.”

His heart leapt. "There was this psychic on Duval Street in Key West, a Tarot card reader –”

Mark Slate had been quiet up until now, allowing April to take the lead, but Napoleon's response was the final straw. “Blimey, mate! A _psychic?_   Tell me you're not serious!”

“Shh, Mark. Let him talk.”

“This woman, Esmeralda, believes that Illya is alive, but she says that somebody wants me to think he's dead. April, two cards and she knew he was an agent! She described him to a tee, for godssake. What if she's right, and he's being held prisoner?”

“By whom? THRUSH?”

“She didn't say.”

“Well of course she didn't,” Mark scowled. “Everybody knows that psychic stuff is a lot of hooey. She was only telling you what you wanted to hear.”

“Hush, Mark.” April sat forward, clasping her hands before her. “Do you recall what question you asked?”

“It's the same one I've been asking since that day at Visconti's townhouse. 'Why Illya?'”

“And the answer?”

Napoleon thought back. “She dealt out six cards, like an upside down pyramid: the Five of Cups, the Page of Swords, the Eight of Swords, The Moon, the Emperor reversed, and the Nine of Swords.”

April nodded to herself. “Grief, the secret-keeper –that'll be Illya – the prisoner, deception, domination, despair.”

Napoleon gaped in surprise. “How did you  –?”

“My mother read Tarot. She was very passionate about it. I learned how to read the cards at an early age. It's been awhile since I did a formal reading for anybody, but the skill is not something you forget.” April paused, thinking. “Was there a follow-up question?”

“Yes, and three more cards. The Magician, the Hanged Man and the Fool.”

“What was the question?”

“I asked if Illya was alive.”

April's mind was thoroughly engaged now. “The Magician is you, right? Having the skill to get the job done?”

Napoleon nodded.

She considered the second card. “The Hanged Man is tricky; it can have several meanings. Martyrdom, acceptance of one's fate, altered perspective.”

“She said it was about breaking through an illusion, trusting my gut to know what's true and what isn't.”

“And the Fool? Faith in miracles?”

He nodded again. “And the willingness to do what's unexpected.”

“Bloody hell, listen to the two of you,” Mark exclaimed, “nattering on as though this stuff is actually legitimate information! Waverly will eat you alive if you bring him a psychic prediction as evidence!”

Napoleon's chin lifted in quiet defiance. “Which is why we're not going to tell him. At least, not until we have more to go on.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I know I'm asking a lot of you both, to accept what I'm saying without firm evidence to back it up. But my gut tells me Esmeralda was onto something. Illya _is_ alive. I can feel it. And he's in danger.”

April clasped his hand in her own. “I believe you,” she said softly. “Of course, you'd be a lot more convincing if you didn't look like the Wild Man of Borneo.”

He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Sorry, I must look like hell,” he acknowledged ruefully. He searched their faces for a sign. “So, are you with me?”

April took his hand. “Do you even have to ask?”

Napoleon exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. “Mark?”

Slate hesitated, and nodded. “Can't leave my friends without backup now, can I? Where do we start?”

*/*/*/

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/84658)

**Chapter 7**

Illya walked to the window and risked a glance out. He was atop a hill looking down on a picture postcard town...albeit a town that looked as if it had been designed by a madman. The architecture was all over the map. It was Medieval in one spot, Mediterranean in another. One part looked English, another French and another German. Whoever created the place knew nothing about style.

Illya paced back and forth, restless. For the last three days, he’d seen no one. Food was pushed under the door through a slot, which was locked afterward. The window was barred inside and out. He was feeling stronger, but he was still far from a hundred percent.

He returned to the window and stared out. In any other situation, it would be an idyllic place. The meadows on the outskirts of the town were green and lush. Cows waded through the belly-deep grass, eating their fill. To the west, the ocean stretched to the horizon. The tide ebbed and flowed but, without a watch, Illya could only guess at the time, based upon the angle of the sun.

There was a noise at his door. He moved quickly across the room, plastering himself against the wall as it whispered open.

Someone stepped through, and he attacked. There was a very feminine scream and he realized belatedly that he’d attacked the woman posing as Nellie. He sat back on his heels, and watched her scramble away to the far side of the room. Her eyes were wide with terror and her hair fell from its habitual bun. “Nellie, I’m…”

She whimpered and retreated even further into the corner, hiding her face in a childlike manner to make his disappear.

Illya stood and walked closer. He stopped and squatted. “Nellie?”

She shuddered.

“I’m sorry I attacked you. I thought you were one of them.”

“She is.” The voice made Illya spin and he cursed himself out for being caught unawares. The man stood there, dressed in a black jacket with white piping, tan slacks and sneakers.

“I know it is not Nellie, but she is frightened, all the same. Isn't there something you can do to help her?”

“Nothing for the moment.” He studied her for a long moment. “I’ve been on the opposite end of the needle myself enough times to know it’s something she is going to have to come out of on her own. She's a pawn, and once they have decided her usefulness is gone, they'll release her.”

Illya assimilated the information. “Why Nellie?”

“What better way to put you at ease, get you to talk? Your shared past with the woman made her an easy choice. They knew they could never break you. With her, they stood a chance of appealing to your gentler sensibilities. So, will you tell them what they want to know?”

A resolute shake of the head. “Of course not.” Illya returned to the window. “So now they are using me as bait to capture Napoleon? It won’t work.”

“Won't it? Now that he and his friends are on their way, thanks to a helpful gypsy, they're all in jeopardy.”

“Friends?”

“A man and a woman.”

“Mark and April." Illya smiled. "Four Section Two agents in one spot is not a wise idea.”

“That is my hope.”

“How will I know when they arrive?”

“I'll come to you. In the meantime, I'll do my best to help the girl.” 

The hiss of a door sliding shut, and Illya was alone again. With a sigh, he returned to the window to resume his vigil.

*/*/*/

**Chapter 8**

April made a pot of coffee and a plate of tuna salad sandwiches from the meager fare in Napoleon's cupboard. Napoleon, meanwhile, spread a nautical map of the world's oceans across the dining room table.

 “The currents on the ocean's surface move in predictable patterns,” he explained, indicating the arrows swirling across the page. “Some currents are warm, Like the Gulf Stream, and some are cold, like the Labrador. This map charts their interactive flow. Warm currents are marked in red, cold currents in blue.”

“Careful,” April called out from the kitchen. “You're starting to sound like Illya.”

Mark peered at the unusual markings and symbols. “This seems pretty complicated. What are we looking for?”

“'An island, warm in a place that shouldn't be.' That's how Esmeralda described the location where Illya is being held.”

April joined them at the table. “So – we're looking for a warm current in a cold part of the world?” She glanced down at the map. “Then I suppose we can eliminate the Brazil, Mozambique, Agulhas and East Australia Currents, since they all occur in tropical climates.”

“Right.” Napoleon covered the lower half of the map with a sheet of paper. “That leaves the Alaska Current, the North Atlantic Drift, The Gulf Stream and the Kuroshio.” He considered the options. “I think we can eliminate the Alaska, since those islands are well-charted. Esmeralda said that the island we're looking for isn't on contemporary navigational charts.” He covered another portion of the map.

“The same would be true of the Gulf Stream,” April said. “The islands along the East coast of the U.S. and Canada are under constant surveillance by the U.S. military. UNCLE would have heard if something were amiss there.”

“Agreed.” He blocked off another section.

“What about the Kuroshio Current?” Mark asked as he snagged another sandwich from the platter. “There are dozens of islands off the East coast of Japan, some of them still unexplored, even after all this time. Remember that Japanese soldier they found a couple of years back? He'd been alone on one of those islands since 1945, and didn't know World War II had ended.”

“A possibility we have to consider.” Napoleon examined the remaining portion of the map, the segment containing the North Atlantic Drift. His eyes traced the current's path along the western shore of the British Isles, and across into Western Europe. “There are islands all over the North Atlantic,” he said. “The Faroes,  Rozkal', Torshavn', Jan Maren, just to name a few. I think we need to consider that area a strong contender as well.”

April massaged her aching neck. “Oh, Napoleon, this is hopeless. How are we ever going to narrow it down?”

Napoleon stared at the map, willing it to give up its secrets. In his mind, he heard Esmeralda's voice again.

_There is an island, forgotten in its obscurity, not found on any but the oldest maps. A warm place, almost tropical, in a part of the world that should not be. Mountainous terrain, lush vegetation, seemingly remote –_

“That's it!” He exclaimed. “She said the island was _seemingly_ remote. That means it's actually _not_. It could be in a fairly populated part of the world – ”

“– hiding in plain sight,” April finished for him. “If that's true, the islands in the Kuroshio Current are too isolated to fit the parameters.”

Napoleon nodded, and covered that portion of the map. “That leaves – the North Atlantic Drift.” It felt right; in his gut, he knew they were getting close.

“I hate to throw a wrench into things, mate,” Mark broke in, “but even if we know what ocean to look in, how do we find an island that isn't on any of the charts? It'd take weeks to survey the area by plane or chopper.”

April's face fell. “Oh, Napoleon, Mark's right. We're right back where we started.”

“Maybe not.” Napoleon smiled, the first smile in days, weeks. “Esmeralda said that the island is 'not found on any but the oldest maps.'”

“So?”

“Where is the most extensive collection of ancient maps in the world?”

“The Bodleian Library at Oxford University; everybody knows that, but I don't see – ”

“And who went to Oxford University as a Rhodes Scholar to study ancient history, and therefore is granted full and complete access to the collection?”

“Oh.” A smile spread across April's lovely face. “I did.”

The pieces of the puzzle were coming together at last. “Mark, get us on the earliest possible flight to London/Oxford.”

“I'm on it.” Slate moved away, already chattering into his communicator.

Napoleon pulled his suitcase from the bedroom closet. He tossed in the map, a handful of underwear and socks, several clips of ammo, and a selection of casual wear suitable for a subtropical climate.

“Didn't your Mother teach you how to fold your clothes?” April observed with a trace of amusement.

“Why bother? The Customs agents will only mess them up.” He slipped on his shoulder holster, and retrieved his Walther and passport from the nightstand. “We can stop at your place on the way to the airport.” He stuffed one of his suits unceremoniously into a garment bag. “Okay, let's go.”

“Napoleon,dear – ”

“Hmm?”

“Don't you think you ought to shave, first?

*

They gazed up at the imposing façade of the Bodleian Library from their vantage point on Radcliffe Square. Students in long black robes lounged on the perfectly manicured lawn, or hurried down the cobbled path, chatting with one another as they made their way to class.

“Gosh,” April said, “was I ever that young?”

“Don't worry, luv,” Mark replied fondly.” Those birds have nothing on you.”

Napoleon tried to ignore a growing sense of unease. He sensed they were getting close to the answers he sought, but he couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out. His mind filled with images of Illya, of what his captors were doing to him, of what he might be suffering. His gut clenched with fear. _What if they were too late to save him? What if Illya was already –?_ He shut his eyes, resolutely banishing the thought from his mind.

He felt a hand upon his shoulder.

“We'll find him, Napoleon,” April vowed softly. “Never doubt it.”  She linked her arm in his, and they strode together toward the Library's main entrance.

April's status gave them instant admission to the Bodleian's Map Room, access that might otherwise have taken hours, or even days to achieve. Upon entry, they endured an archaic oath-swearing ritual, promising never to smoke, spit, or start a fire inside the Bodleian's hallowed halls, nor to deface any item stored within its vaults. When it was finally concluded, they took seats at a study table to wait for the librarian to deliver the maps April had requested.

“We can't copy anything, or remove materials from the Library,” April reminded them while they waited, “but we can request to see any map or document we choose. I've asked for early maps of the British Isles as a starting point. If that doesn't pan out, we'll look at Scandinavia.”

“And after that?” Napoleon asked. The daunting nature of the task they'd undertaken was just now starting to sink in.

April's smile was warm and reassuring. “Let's take it one step at a time, okay?”

The tray of maps arrived in short order. April donned white cotton gloves, and removed the first map from its protective folder. She laid it carefully upon the long table. “The Anglo-Saxon _Mappa Mundi,_ ” she announced with a touch of reverence. “Hand drawn on calfskin, using pigments made from oak galls, malachite and lapis lazuli. Created around 1050 AD, although the information was gathered centuries earlier, probably during the last days of the Roman Empire. It's the earliest map we have of the British Isles.”

“It looks a lot like the maps in that Tolkien book,” Mark said, “more like an illustration than a map. Hey, is that a sea serpent frolicking in the middle of the North Atlantic?” He leaned in for a closer look.

“You're not far off. Tolkien attended Oxford, and was influenced by much of what he found in the Bodleian. His _Red Book of Westermarch_ is patterned after a book of Welsh fables he saw here, the _Red Book of Hergest._ And yes, that is a sea serpent waiting to gobble that ship. The world's oceans were mostly unexplored back then, and hence, a source of great fear.”

“Beautiful _and_ brainy,” Mark declared with amusement. “It's what I love about you.”

April smiled. “Just part of my irresistible charm.” She withdrew a jeweler's loupe from her handbag, and began her study of the document.

Napoleon pulled out the Traveller's World Atlas he'd purchased in the airport gift shop upon their arrival. He opened it to the page on Great Britain, and set it beside the ancient map. “So we can compare the two,” he said.

They pored over the _Mappa Mundi_ , April translating the Latin captions with easy skill. After an hour, she placed the map back in its folder, and laid it aside. “Nothing,” she sighed. She reached for the next map.

Napoleon rubbed bleary eyes. “What's the date on this one?” he asked.

“Thirteenth century AD. It's the Matthew Paris map of Great Britain, one of the most famous maps ever made.”

He had to admit that the map, with its irregular shape and vibrant shades of green and blue, was oddly beautiful. “What makes it so special?”

“The attention to detail – see how accurately the rivers and streams are drawn, and the boundary between England and Scotland? Matthew Paris tried to to illustrate the actual geography of the region, rather than merely suggest it.”

“So the information is more reliable?”

“Absolutely.” She glanced up. “The map is noteworthy for another reason as well.” She pointed to a corner of the map. “See here? Mount Snowdon and the Orkney Islands are depicted with near perfect accuracy – an intriguing development, since Matthew Paris never visited either of those places in his travels.”

“How is that possible?”

April smiled. “It's a mystery, isn't it? Historians speculate that Paris must have had access to one of Ptolemy's lost maps at some point.”

“So it could conceivably contain information even older than the _Mappa Mundi?”_

She nodded. “Possibly as early as 50 AD.” She raised the loupe to her eye, and resumed her search. Almost immediately, her eye was drawn to the west coast of Wales. She gasped. “Napoleon, I think I may have something. Check the atlas for an island off the coast of Wales. Cardigan Bay, south of Porthmadog and Abersoch, and to the east of Bardsey Island.”

Napoleon scanned the page. “There's nothing. No island.”

“Well there's one here.”

He leaned in to look, his fatigue vanished. “Do you suppose –?”

April's face was alight with excitement. “It could be an inaccurate representation of some other topographical formation – the mouth of a river, for example. Or, it could be the island we've been looking for.”

“How can we know for sure?”

“We look for a secondary source of confirmation.” She reached for the next folder. “The John Speed map,” she said, withdrawing the stunning red and blue document from its protective cover. “John Speed was the foremost mapmaker of the Elizabethan Age. Advances in cartography made the maps of this period far more complex and accurate than those in preceding centuries, and this particular example, dated around 1610, was among the finest. If our mystery island shows up here, it will corroborate what we saw on the Matthew Paris – Yes!” She clapped her hands, causing heads to be raised at several tables. “Shh,” someone hissed.

“Yes,” she repeated more quietly. “It's here, Napoleon. See?”

There it was, an island, missing from Napoleon's twentieth century atlas, yet unmistakably present on not one but two ancient maps. Independent confirmation.

There's an inscription!” April squinted to read it. “' _Caveat serpentem in Paradiso.'”_

“'Beware the serpent in Paradise.' Sounds like the sort of place Illya would visit.” Napoleon's heart pounded with excitement. _They'd found the island!_ “We're going to need a helicopter,” he said.

*/*/*/

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/74234)

**Chapter 9**

They had stopped drugging Illya or, at least, he supposed that was the case. For the first few weeks, they’d kept him in a stupor, but no longer. Now he slept and woke when he wished. There were no more needle marks on his arms, and his nausea was gone.

They had also abandoned the pretense of the broken legs. An ashen-faced Nellie had come in and removed the fake casts, and unbuckled the straps that held his legs to the bed. She’d removed the catheter as well, to Illya’s great delight, and laid out a clean set of clothes. Then she quietly withdrew, never speaking a word to him. Nor did he attempt a conversation with her.

It had taken him nearly a week to get back to what he considered normal. He’d been in bed for such a long time that, at first, his legs were unwilling to support him. The nurse hadn’t been joking when she said he’d lost weight. He estimated that he had dropped at least fifteen pounds from his frame.

Thankfully, the food kept coming even when Nellie didn’t. Three times a day, a small slot at the bottom of the door would open and a tray would be slipped in. At least the food was plentiful and tasty. Illya ate slowly, gauging how he felt. The minute he started feeling sleepy, he pushed the tray away. After a while, they stopped bothering to drug it.

The one thing Illya had to say about these guys was that they were predictable… after a fashion. Every time he slept, they would creep in and replace the cameras and microphones he had damaged. Illya watched them through barely opened eyes.

The next morning Illya would wake, shower, shave, and then systemically dismantle the equipment. It gave him something to do before breakfast. Whenever he did, he pulled a bit of wire here, a fuse there, tucking them away in a safe spot. They never found his stash, or else they saw no harm in him having one.

After a week of this, the people in charge gave up. One morning the cameras and microphones were gone. If they’d been hidden elsewhere in the room, Illya couldn't find them. What he did find, however, were several tools left behind by the workmen on their final visit. One of the men looked familiar, and he wondered if it could have been his mysterious partner-in-crime.

The only person Illya saw with any regularity now was the mysterious man. He came and went at odd intervals, keeping it random to confuse his captors. Heaven knew it was confusing Illya.

Whoever was running the show didn’t seem to be worried. It was as if they’d lost interest. That in itself was a red flag for him. It told him his captors probably weren’t THRUSH. THRUSH wasn’t normally this… casual, if that was the right word, with their prisoners. 

Illya went through every inch of the room, checking for loose tiles, hidden panels, ceiling or vent access, but the place was escape-proof. He’d not run into one of those for a very long time. He tried to fashion a weapon from his silverware, but the utensils were made of pot metal and bent too easily. 

He couldn’t pry the door open. There was no knob on his side, and the edges of the door fit so cleanly that Illya couldn’t even get a fingernail between it and the jam. The small opening on the floor wouldn’t permit him to shove more than a forearm through it. When he peered through the slot, all he saw were gray walls, floor and ceiling.

Now that he was largely unobserved, Illya began to work on repairing his sabotaged communicator. He didn’t have the tools or parts he wanted, but if he could engineer it to send out a signal, it might just get through to UNCLE.

Every morning, he took the communicator to a small table and spread it out. The sun came through and warmed him, a reminder that there was a world outside, and he was still a part of it. It took a lot of effort, but he worked slowly and methodically. He had nothing else to do, no books to read or music to listen to. It was him, the bed, its nightstand, a table, and chair. There was an overhead light and a closet, empty except for his other suit. The bathroom had towels, toiletries and a safety razor. He felt as if he was being held captive in a low-budget motel.

He was working on the communicator one morning when it emitted a sudden flash of green. Illya started to grin, only to have the smile fall from his face as it went out a few seconds later. Sighing, he returned to his work.

Illya was working so intently on his project that he only heard the whisper of his door at the last second. He threw a towel over the communicator, and schooled his face into a mask of boredom.

The man, for Illya still didn’t know his name, stepped in and shut the door. As was his fashion, he moved around the room, checking for the now-absent cameras and microphones.

"What have you done?”

Illya was immediately on the alert. “I have no idea what you...” 

The man drew back the towel. “You activated your communicator? You fool! Haven't you heard a word I said?”

Before Illya could travel the five steps between him, the man had snapped the implement in two. “We're trying to keep Solo _away_ from here, not reel him in like a fish! Did you even think what would happen if he got a message, any message, from you?” The man pulled a newspaper from his jacket pocket and slammed it on the bed. “Did you even stop to think that this was exactly what they wanted you to do? That it's why they left the damn fool thing here to begin with?” He threw the pieces of the communicator aside. “Do me a favor, Kuryakin, don’t help me!”

For a long moment after the man stormed from the room, Illya remained frozen. He’d not thought about the consequences. He’d just been hoping to reach Napoleon, and let him know that his partner was okay.

Illya shook himself from his daze. He glanced at the newspaper lying on the bed. It was a recent issue of _Pravda._

 _Родной сын Мертвого_ ( _Native Son Dead_ ), the caption read and Illya stared at a grainy black and white photo of himself.

*/*/*/

**Chapter 10**

The helicopter flew across the dark waters of Cardigan Bay. It was a stark, moonless night, clouds from the approaching storm front concealing the canopy of stars that should have dotted the sky. The lights from the cities and towns they had left behind had long since faded into darkness. Napoleon thought that he'd never seen a night so totally devoid of ambient light.

“Can you take us any lower?” he asked. “Visibility's terrible.”

Mark Slate shook his head. “This new terrain-hugging radar is still pretty experimental. If I go any lower, we'll be eating plankton for breakfast.”

“There!” April pointed to a vague shape, barely visible against the unrelenting darkness of sky and ocean.

 _The island!_ Napoleon's heart began to race. _Illya was down there, somewhere._

The chopper drew nearer, and now they could make out the jagged slash of mountains, and a necklace of wide, sandy beaches circling the perimeter of the island. An exotic-looking village of pastel cottages and tall, Italianate towers hugged the coastline, surrounded by acres of lush formal gardens.

“Looks pretty idyllic to me,” Mark said. “Are we sure this is the place?”

“I'm not sure of anything,” Napoleon answered honestly, “but it's all we've got.”

“No lights,” April observed a bit breathlessly. “That's odd, don't you think?”

“Maybe no one's home,” Mark replied. “Shall I swing by and take a closer look, or should we just ring the doorbell?”

 “We don't want to risk alerting them,” Napoleon said as he shrugged into his parachute harness. “Better take us around to the other side of the island. I'd rather make the jump unobserved.”

“Roger that.” The helicopter banked sharply to the left.

“Any questions before I head out?” Napoleon asked them as he secured the harness straps.

April shook her head. “Don't worry, love. Mark and I know what to do.”

He hesitated. “In case I haven't thanked the two of you –”

“No need. Mark and I had some vacation time coming.” She smiled. “Besides, Illya's my friend, too.”

“Okay, mates,” Slate called back. “Dark side of the moon, coming up in ten.”

“Right.” Napoleon opened the hatch bay door, and had to hold on as the wind gusted around him, whipping at his hair.

“Stay safe, Napoleon,” April shouted over the noise of the rotors. “Bring Illya home.”

He gave her a thumbs up, and jumped out into the black nothingness of the night.

He counted to five, and pulled the ripcord to deploy the main chute. Alert for any indication that his presence had been detected, he drifted down into the inky darkness. There was only silence.

The ground came up to meet him, but too fast. Napoleon landed with a grunt, smashing his hip against a rock. He released the clamps on his harness as swiftly as his bruised body would allow, and gathered up the billowing parachute. Folding the fabric into a neat bundle, he hid it in a dense clump of vegetation. He dug the flashlight out of his rucksack, and started off in the direction of the village.

The terrain grew steeper almost immediately, and he was forced to scale the clifflike face of the mountain hand over hand in places. He wished he'd thought to bring climbing equipment. Napoleon found it curious that the place was so utterly devoid of sound – no creatures scurried about in the darkness, no bats click-clicking by, not so much as an insect to disturb the queer silence. It seemed unnatural.

He reached the crest of the mountain, and began the long descent. Dawn was still several hours away, and he was thankful for the concealing darkness. His only real hope of finding Illya depended on reaching the village while it was still dark and he could move about unseen. The night wore on.

He reached the base of the mountain with an hour to spare, and stepped cautiously onto the dirt road leading to the village.

Without warning, a deep, rumbling roar filled the night, shaking the branches of the trees and causing the ground beneath Napoleon's feet to tremble.

_Earthquake? Avalanche?_

The sound came again, louder, closer. It was terrifying, prehistoric, like nothing he had heard before. Napoleon looked around in confusion.

Out of the darkness, an enormous white orb came rolling toward him. He had an instant to wonder at the shimmering, gelatinous quality of its surface, and then it roared again, a horrid, deafening blast. The sound sent shivers of terror down Napoleon's spine. He backed away instinctively, but it was too late. The thing was upon him before he could run. It covered his face, carnivorous, smelling of rotted meat. Its touch burned his skin like acid. It enveloped him, leeching the breath from his body, sucking out his soul. Napoleon tried to scream but there was no air...no air...

 _Oh, Illya,_ he sighed, and then the darkness took him.

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/83942)

*/*/*/

 

**Chapter 11**

 

After the man’s last visit, books had started showing up in his room. At first Illya was delighted, but then he began to wonder if there was some meaning in them. He started studying the titles, the authors, any part of the book for a clue. But there was nothing. They were just books, some fiction and some non-fiction. They topics ranged from cerebral to the banal. It was as if they were trying to distract him, but from what? And why now?

Illya got up off the bed and walked to the window. It was eerily dark outside. He’d never seen a place without at least some ambient light escaping from a window whose curtain didn’t quite close. When evening fell here, it was as if a blanket was draped over the place, rendering it invisible from view. Whoever was in charge of this place obviously didn’t want it to be seen at night, and Illya had to guess there were similar features in place during the day. In short, he was locked in an escape-proof cell in an invisible village. Illya sensed his goose might finally be cooked.

He turned, and was shocked to see that the door to his cell was wide open. _When had that happened?_

It was too inviting. He sat down resolutely and crossed his arms. He half expected the door to shut, but it didn’t.

There was something going on outside. It was dark and he couldn’t really tell. Then he saw it - a large white object oscillating across the shore and out into the water. There was a noise.

“It’s too late.”

Illya turned. The man was there. “What’s too late?”

“They have him. We’ve failed. You’ve failed.”

“Then we’ll rescue him.” Illya took a step towards the open door, stopping at the splayed hand across his chest.

“What are your feelings towards your partner?”

“I don’t understand. He’s my partner.”

“Would you die for him?”

“If need be.”

“And he you?”

“Of course.”

“What would you do to save him?”

“I just told you, anything.”

“Would you betray your employer?”

Illya edged away from the man, eyeing him warily. “Never, and neither would Napoleon.”

“Then you have a problem.”

*/*/*/

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/76758)

**Chapter 12**

Napoleon woke to the sound of birds singing.

 _Robin,_ he thought idly. _That's a robin. Robin redbreast. He recalled a snatch of nursery rhyme...'The north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow, and what will poor robin do then, poor thing...'_

He rubbed his eyes to clear the cobwebs from them. His body ached from the climb.

_The climb?_

He bolted upright.

_He was home, in his own bed! The room in which he had slept was his own! The bed, his own! The fine silk sheets, his own! No, that wasn't right. He was supposed to be --_

“How did I get here?” he wondered aloud. He felt dizzy, disoriented.

_Think!_

He remembered the island, the search for Illya. Jumping from the helicopter, bruising his hip on landing. Scaling the cliff, the long hike down the mountain in the dark. He remembered the oddly silent forest, and the –

_Suffocating!_

In his mind's eye he saw the white orb barreling toward him, enveloping him, consuming him. The sensation of airlessness and desperation. The burning in his lungs as he tried to suck in oxygen, and failed.

_No, that can't be real! I was dreaming, that's all. It was a dream, and Illya's safe and –_

But Illya wasn't safe. Illya was dead.

_Or was he? Wasn't that what he'd been doing in Wales with April and Mark? Trying to find him? Christ, why was everything so muddled this morning?_

He threw back the covers, and rose a bit unsteadily, wincing at the pain in his hip.

_Pain?_

He rolled down the waistband of his pajamas, and gasped at the ugly purple bruise blossoming across his thigh and buttocks.

 _It did happen! I didn't dream it!_ “What the hell is going on?”

On an impulse, he stepped to the window, and opened the curtains. His eyes widened in shock.

_The village, the one they'd spotted from the chopper! He wasn't in New York at all!_

The phone began to ring. Napoleon stared at it. Finally, he picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Ah, you're awake, Number Eleven. I hope you slept well.”

“Who is this?”

“We've a great deal to talk about. Come 'round to my place, why don't you? We'll have a chat over breakfast.”

“Talk to me now.”

“Just follow the signs. Number Two, the green dome.” The line went dead.

 _What now?_ He searched the apartment, but his Walther and communicator were gone. Gone too were his exploding cufflinks, and the rucksack, along with all the equipment he'd brought. Whoever his captors were, they'd been thorough.

Napoleon decided to play along for the moment. He needed to find Illya, and it seemed that the only way to go about it was to play their game – whoever “they” were. He showered and dressed, donning one of the strange, hand-tailored suits waiting for him in the closet. It fit perfectly, down to the smallest detail. _Remarkable,_ Napoleon thought. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to perpetrate this bizarre sham. Time to go see who was behind it.

The front door opened of its own accord, startling him. He recovered quickly, and stepped out into the bright sunshine. As if on cue, music began blaring from the loudspeakers, a trumpet voluntary that reminded him of something out of _Camelot_. Within a matter of seconds, a crowd of people swarmed the square. They were dressed uniformly, in brightly colored attire; many wore capes and carried umbrellas, which they twirled in time to the music. They chatted with one another as they passed, ignoring Napoleon as though he were invisible.

A golf cart pulled up, its striped awning flapping gently in the breeze. “Destination?” the driver inquired with a smile.

“Number Two's residence.”

“Certainly, Number Eleven. Hop in.”

Napoleon climbed aboard, and the little cart sped off down the road, past the General Store, an old fashioned bandstand, and a checkered lawn where a group of people played a gigantic game of chess.

He remembered the last time he'd seen a match like that. _Could Alexander the Greater be behind all this?_ he wondered.

Moments later, the cart stopped at the foot of an ornate, green-domed building. “Number Two's residence,” the driver announced cheerfully. “That'll be two credits.”

“Bill me,” Napoleon snapped, and headed up the stairs. He pulled the bell pull, and the door opened. He gasped. “You!”

It was the odd little man from the airport in Key West, the one who'd been standing in line just ahead of him – only now he was dressed as a butler. _They've been watching me the whole time,_ Napoleon realized. An even more troubling thought followed upon the heels of the first. _What about the psychic? Was Esmeralda part of their plan, too? And if so, was she lying about Illya being alive? He had to know, even if it meant walking into their trap._

“Napoleon Solo to see Number Two,” he said.

The man nodded, silent as ever, and gestured for him to follow. They passed through a small but elegant foyer, complete with marble fireplace and the requisite urn of fresh-cut flowers, their scent cloying in the enclosed space. At the far end of the foyer was an imposing set of steel doors. They slid open at his approach, revealing a circular, ultramodern control room. The room was empty, but for a single black, spherical chair and its occupant.

“Ah, Number Eleven,” the man said, rising. “So good of you to come.”

“Visconti,” Napoleon breathed. “So you're the one behind this farce. I might have known.” He stepped into the room, and the door slid closed behind him.

“Let''s not stand on ceremony,” Visconti smiled. “Call me Number Two.”

“Who's Number One?”

“That would be telling.” He gestured toward a tray. “Breakfast?”

Napoleon ignored the question. “Why have I been brought here? And where's Illya?”

Visconti laughed. “So many questions! Do sit down, Number Eleven, and I'll give you all the answers you wish.”

A second chair emerged from a panel in the floor. Napoleon hesitated.

“It won't eat you, Number Eleven. Only Emory Partridge's chairs do that.”

After a moment, Napoleon sat down, keeping well away from the arm rests, just in case.

“Coffee?” Visconti lifted a silver urn.

“No. Where's Illya?”

“Tsk, tsk. We're going to have to do something about your manners while you're here, Number Eleven.”

“Don't worry. I won't be staying long.” Napoleon leaned forward. “Once again – Where. Is. Illya?”

“Number Twenty-Two, you mean? Oh, he's around here somewhere, dear fellow. Quite unharmed – for the moment.”

Napoleon's world righted itself. _Illya, alive._ “I want to see him.”

A laugh. “We all want something.”

 _The price._ “What do _you_ want?”

Visconti sipped his coffee. “Information, of course. The knowledge you two possess is priceless to a number of interested parties. You're really a salable commodity, you know.”

“How reassuring.”

“Is it?” He seemed to find the thought funny. “Let me be blunt, Number Eleven. You have a choice: tell us what we want to know voluntarily, or we'll be forced to take it from you, using somewhat more –invasive methods. You might survive the experience, but your friend is terribly weak –”

“I thought you said he was fine.”

“Well, perhaps I did exaggerate, just a bit.” Visconti steepled his fingers before him. “He's been – through a lot recently, what with dying and all. He may not have the necessary stamina to survive our coarser methods. You wouldn't want to lose him again now, would you?”

 _And there it was,_ thought Napoleon. _Visconti's plan. Make me suffer through Illya's “death” so I would know the pain, and the cost._ “I want to see him.”

“Certainly.” He pushed a button on the console, and Illya's image appeared on a wide, elevated screen. He was lying atop a bed, apparently asleep. He looked pale and thin, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His legs were encased in plaster casts. “There, see?”

It was all Napoleon could do to retain his composure. “Tapes can be doctored,” he replied coolly. “I want to see Illya in person.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Regrettably, Number Twenty-Two is unable to receive visitors at this time. Perhaps later, after you and I have had the chance to get to know one another better.”

“It seems we're at an impasse.” Napoleon stood. “I'll find Illya myself – with or without your cooperation.”

Visconti cocked his head, clearly amused. “Hmm, yes. I heard you were stubborn.”

“You don't know the half of it.”

“Well –” He toyed with the fringe on the striped scarf he wore.  “I can't promise anything definite, Number Eleven, but I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, please feel free to enjoy the hospitality of our little Village. There's something for everyone here. Given time, I think you'll feel very much at home.”

Napoleon turned and made his way back up the ramp. “I doubt it,” he said as the steel doors closed behind him.

*/*/*/

**Chapter 13**

For a long time, Illya sat on his bed, his arms crossed, staring at the open door. It seemed funny that only this morning, he’d attacked the door with his razor blade. All he’d gotten for his efforts was a nicked finger and more frustration.

However, he had not become an UNCLE agent by being impulsive. And charging out a previously secured door seemed very impulsive to him. When the mysterious man tried to lure him out, Illya refused until the man finally walked away in disgust.

Illya’s stomach growled, and he smirked. Perhaps they thought they could starve him out. He glanced out the window, where morning was starting to brighten the sky.

There was a noise in the hall, and Illya returned his attention to the door. A man stood there, holding a tray. He was around three feet tall, and wore a traditional English butler's outfit. He set the tray on the floor and pushed it towards Illya.

Illya saw a hint of gold. Without wanting to, he got up and approached the tray warily, as if a gang of guerrilla fighters lurked just behind the butler. He knelt down, and tried to keep his hand from trembling as he reached for Napoleon’s I.D. card.

A gust of gas hit him and he choked. He tried to fight it, but it was impossible and then he was falling. He was unconscious by the time he hit the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

*

Illya moaned, and managed to get one eye open. _My apartment!_ Outside, he could hear the sounds of a restless New York as its inhabitants went about their business.

 _Now what?_ He looked around. Everything was as it should be, every detail, down to the magazine he’d dropped when he’d gotten the call from headquarters that sent him and Napoleon to London to bug Bram Visconti's townhouse. It felt like a year had passed since that assignment.

Illya blinked. Visconti. The name had bubbled out of nowhere. He’d remembered the mission, but only in bits and pieces. Oh well, a quick glance at the report at HQ would fix that.

Illya sat up,knocking an empty bottle of vodka to the floor. He wondered what had happened to make him tie one on. A quick check of his watch told him he had just enough time left to shower, shave, and change.

He was amazed that there was hot water; the super usually turned off the hot water after nine. Illya really did need to move into a better building, but he liked the comfortable ambiance of his cozy Village walk-up.

He pulled on a gray polo shirt and his favorite black slacks. Strapping on his gun, a familiar and reassuring presence once again, he walked quickly to his front door. Slipping into his jacket, he decided to grab something at the Canteen once he checked in. He opened the door, and gasped.

A small town of brightly colored buildings stretched out to either side, and Illya realized that he wasn’t in New York. He was still in the Village.

*/*/*/

**Chapter 14**

He stepped outside, and took a deep breath; he smelled the sea. The sun was warm on his face, the vegetation tropical. He reached out and touched a plant. It was real. He knelt and picked up a handful of dirt. It trickled through his fingers, moist and loamy. Standing, he ran his hand down first one surface and then another, each time letting his consciousness report back to him. 

He stepped back into his apartment and heard the door close behind him, a soft hum, like the doors at the hospital. He lifted the phone from its receiver. In the center of the dial was the number Twenty-Two.

A chipper voice asked, “Number, please?”

“Uh… KLondyke 5-6443.”

“I’m sorry, only local numbers.”

“I don’t… have one.”

“Call back when you do.” The line went dead. Illya took out his communicator. “Open Channel D.”

“Number, please.” It was the same chipper voice.

He dropped the communicator and looked wildly around the room. It was his apartment, perfectly replicated, down to the half-finished pizza on the tiny dinette table.

Illya drew his weapon and checked the clip. It seemed real, felt real, but the bullets were fake. He slapped the clip back in and pointed it at his sofa. Pulling the trigger, the gun ejected the bullet without firing. Illya returned it to the holster and took out his frustration on the closest thing to him, his record collection. He yanked the albums from their spot and strewed them over the floor. He stopped short of breaking any. After all, some of them were very valuable, at least to him.

He walked into the bedroom and stopped. The hospital room had been bugged… and there were cameras. It stood to reason there were cameras here as well.

It took him fifteen minutes to find them, but he did. He quickly dismantled them. Then he went to his dresser. If they’d taken his actual furniture, they might not have found this. He rummaged through his underwear drawer until his fingers felt the slightest of ridges. It took him precious seconds to work loose the fake bottom, but eventually it opened and Illya reached inside.

He almost cried when he felt the cool metal against his fingers. He withdrew the weapon and smiled. Experimental, it was made of a metal-infused plastic alloy. He’d been assured that, while it wouldn’t hold up in an extended gun battle, it could fire a clip. Illya checked the mechanism and smiled. If nothing else, at least he was armed now.

He’d just managed to get the false bottom back in place when there was a knock to his front door. Illya went to answer it. The woman standing there was wearing a black and white striped shirt and tight pants. Pinning to the shirt was a button with a penny farthing and the number Forty-Eight on it.

“I received a report that you had a malfunction.” Her voice was oddly chipper, and she seemed vaguely familiar.

She started to move past Illya and his eyes widened. He grabbed her arm, and spun her towards him.

“Nellie?”

“Who’s Nellie? I’m Number Forty-Eight.” She struggled to break his grip, her eyes wide and fearful.

“Where am I?”

“You’re here! We’re all here. Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me where I am.”

“Let her go, Number Twenty-Two.”

Illya turned and the man was standing there. “You!” Illya pushed the woman aside and stormed up to the man. “What is this?”

“Your best defense right now is to play along with them. You already have all the answers you need. You are in the Village. So is your partner. Your brains will be picked clean one way or the other. To confront them is to lose. Believe me, I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.”

“You expect me to take this lying down?”

“That’s the last thing they'd expect from you, Number Twenty-Two.” The man’s eyes spoke volumes. “They've asked me to escort you to the hospital.” He nodded to Illya’s records. “Perhaps you’d like to tidy up your records first?”

Illya sighed, trying to sound put upon. “All right, if I must.”

“They like things neat and tidy here.”

Illya shuffled through the albums. He found Herbie Hancock’s  _Inventions and Dimensions_  and placed it carefully on the counter. “Where is this place?”

“No idea. It doesn’t appear on any maps. It simply is. There's a general store where you can buy anything you need.”

“A ticket out of this place?” Ornette Coleman’s  _Ornette on Tenor_  was next. What this man did on a tenor sax was almost orgasmic.

“That would be The Funeral Home at the other end of town.”

“You weren’t joking, then.”  _Fuchsia Swing song_ by Sam Rivers was next.

“I never joke, Number Twenty-Two.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Illya slid Pharoah Sanders’  _Tauhid_ onto the shelf beside the Rivers album _._

“It’s your number.” The man’s face darkened. “That's your first lesson here. Everyone in the Village is a number. Accept that and you're halfway to freedom.”

“My name is Illya Kuryakin.” Illya examined the cover of Ira Sullivan’s  _Blue Stroll_ before adding it to the collection.

“I’m Number Six. It would do you well to remember your place here.”

“And what exactly is my place here?” Albert Ayler  _Goin’ Home_  seemed a safe choice.

“You will be expected to find a job and settle in. Make this your new home. Tell them what they want and, with any luck, they'll leave you to die in peace. Press your luck and it can go very badly for you.”

 _You and Lee_ by Lee Konitz was the last one he selected. “I doubt they can offer anything I haven’t already experienced.”

“You have no idea what they're capable of. Will you get on with it?” No. 6 knelt and started handing him albums. Number Forty-Eight came out of the bedroom and walked quickly to the door. “Is everything fixed?”

“Yes, Number Six. Everything is shipshape.”

Illya finished staging the record albums. If Napoleon was indeed here and able to find him, then this would be a message to him. Possibly too little, too late, but it was the best he could do.

Straightening up, he followed Number Six outside. Music was playing, something soft and slightly jazzy. Trust the Village to come with its own soundtrack.

A small golf cart pulled up and a young woman, dressed similarly to the repairwoman, leaned over. “Where to?”

“Hospital.”

“Oh, are you feeling poorly again, Number Twenty-Two?” She smiled sympathetically. “Seems like you just got out.”

“Just a check up, Number Fourteen,” Number Six answered. “Drive on, please.”

Illya used the time to study his new prison, for he was certain he’d simply exchanged one cell for another. There was a news stand, a café, a labor exchange… labor spelt with a ‘u’ and that caught Illya’s eye. There was a post office, several clothing stores, a book store, in short everything that a small town required.

“Who is your major supplier?”

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“Who brings your food and goods in? They cannot appear magically.”

The girl in the front seat, Number Fourteen, laughed merrily. “Yes, they can. That’s the glory of the Village. Here you want for nothing.”

“Except freedom,” Illya whispered.

“Except freedom,” Number Six concurred.

They pulled up in front of the hospital and the taxi paused just long enough for them to get out before speeding away. There was a large sun-drenched patio where patients in wheelchairs sat, enjoying the morning. Two men played chess. A nurse paused here and there, seeing to the comfort of her charges.

“All very civilized,” Illya murmured as they mounted the stairs and walked into the hospital lobby.

“Appearances can be deceiving.” 

*/*/*/

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/78367)

**Chapter 15**

Another of the little golf carts met Napoleon at the bottom of the stairs. “Destination?” the driver inquired pleasantly.

Napoleon thought. “Can you take me to Number Twenty-Two's residence?”

The driver grinned. “I can take you anywhere in The Village, Number Eleven. Hop in.” The little cart sped away down the lane. “A friend of Number Twenty-Two's, are you?” he asked as they passed by the Town Pool.

Napoleon didn't bother to answer, his attention focused on on memorizing the layout of The Village, and assessing possible escape routes.

“Haven't seen much of Twenty-Two. I hear he's not well. Been in and out of Hospital ever since he arrived.”

 _Was Illya ill? Injured?_ Napoleon fought to quell his growing concern.

They passed a pub called The Cat & Mouse, an arts and crafts guild hall, and something called The Labour Exchange. The trip was over in a matter of minutes. “Two credits,” the driver declared, holding out his hand.

“I'm, uh, new here.”

“No problem, Number Eleven. Things are always a bit confusing at first. Don't worry – they'll get you sorted out in due course. Pay me when you can. Be seeing you.” The driver gave an odd little salute and drove off.

Cottage Number Twenty-Two was in a pretty, wooded area next to The Village Hospital. Napoleon was reasonably sure its proximity to a medical center wasn't a good sign for Illya. Assuming that this creepy, Twilight Zone of a place was, in reality, some sort of bizarre mind-bending facility, he would have bet dollars to donuts that most of the mind bending occurred in that hospital, away from prying eyes.

The door to Number Twenty-Two was wide open. “Illya?”

No answer.

He stepped across the threshold. 

The place was a perfect replica of Illya's New York apartment. A second-hand sofa was littered with books and magazines on a wide variety of subjects from the Hoare quicksort algorithm to women's rights in Equatorial Africa. A half-eaten pizza sat open on the dinette table. Jazz records were strewn across the top of the kitchen counter.  A copy of the latest issue of the American Journal of Physics lay open on the carpet, the pages crumpled. An empty bottle of Stolichnaya lay beside it, and a broken table lamp. In the bathroom, the shower ran unattended, the water ice cold.

_But where was Illya?_

The sausage pizza on the dinette table was hours old. Had Illya ordered it? Where did you order pizza in a place like this, anyway?

His eye was drawn to the jazz records again. _Illya would never have treated his precious recordings like that._ He looked more closely. The arrangement of the albums appeared random, but –

Herbie Hancock. Ornette Coleman. Sam Rivers. Pharaoh Sanders. Ira Sullivan. Tina Brooks. Albert Ayler. Lee Konitz.

 _Something there, but what?_ And then he had it.

 ** _H_ ** _erbert- **O** rnette- **S** am **-P** haroah- **I** ra- **T** ina- **A** lbert- **L** ee. HOSPITAL._

_But what did it mean? Had Illya been taken to the hospital? Or had he gone there on his own to investigate?_

Napoleon knew he had only one option, and that was to follow in Illya's footsteps. Before he left, however, he added one more record to the pile on the counter – Kai Winding's _Solo._ If Illya came back, he'd know his partner had been there, had seen and understood.

With a final glance at the apartment that reminded him so much of his friend, Napoleon shut the front door, and crossed the street to the hospital.

*/*/*/

**[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/84149) **

 

**Chapter 16**

The Hospital's somber facade contrasted sharply with architecture in the rest of The Village. Where the surrounding buildings were elegantly beautiful, the Hospital was unusually dreary and colorless. The place reminded Napoleon of an ancient Scottish castle, all aged stone and crumbling, ivy-covered walls. Tall turrets stood at each of the four corners of the ominous-looking structure.

 _All it needs is a drawbridge,_ he thought. Steeling himself for whatever lay ahead, he climbed the single flight of stairs, edged past a row of pasty-looking patients in wheelchairs, and entered the main lobby.

“Number Eleven!” the nurse at the front desk chirruped. “What a lovely surprise!”

Napoleon's jaw dropped. “Nellie? Don't tell me they got you, too?”

She blushed prettily. “I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else. I'm Number Forty-Eight, don't you remember?”

Napoleon was momentarily taken aback. “Yes, of course. My mistake,” he covered quickly. “I'm here to – visit a friend. Number Twenty-Two. I understand he was brought in recently.”

“Let me check.” Nellie sifted through the stack of Admissions slips. “Yes, here it is.” She scanned the page, and her expression fell. “Oh, dear. Your friend is not at all well.”

Napoleon schooled his expression to reveal nothing. “Why? What's wrong with him?”

“I'm not really supposed to – ”

“Please.”

“Well – ” She glanced around. “According to my records, Number Twenty-Two suffers from an acute case of Dissocial Schizotypal Avoidance Personality Disorder. I'm afraid the prognosis is rather grim.”

“Can I see him?”

“Yes, but you'll have to hurry. He's scheduled for surgery shortly.”

“Surgery?”

Nellie nodded solemnly. “In cases like these, a pre-frontal lobotomy is the only cure. They're prepping him now.”

Napoleon paled. “Which way?”

“Third floor, end of the corridor. You can take the elevator.”

Napoleon was already moving, fear for Illya displacing his innate sense of caution. He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. The doors closed, and then, oddly, his next sensation was of the elevator _de_ scending.

 _Of course._ The building wasn't tall enough to have a third floor. More misdirection. _Trust nothing,_ he reminded himself. _Trust no one._

The doors opened.

Another circular room, this one housing a state-of-the-art operating theatre. A pair of empty gurneys waited beside a complex bank of computers. The machines hummed with sinister purpose, belching out reams of data onto punch cards. White-coated technicians bustled about, fiddling with the various dials and noting the punch card responses on their clipboards. Illya was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, Number Eleven,” Visconti exclaimed. “Right on time. You UNCLE agents are so tragically predictable.”

“Where's Illya?”

Visconti shrugged. “I've no idea. It doesn't really matter, since he's already served his purpose.”

 _To get me here,_ Too late, Napoleon realized what his impulsiveness had cost him. _Illya will never let me hear the end of it._ “What is this place?”

“I call it 'The Village.' I designed the place for THRUSH some years back, as a no-holds-barred interrogation facility for high-end captures. Using a variety of psychological triggers, we alter our captives' paradigms, pick their minds clean, and sell the information to the highest bidder. I must say, it's been a real moneymaker over the years.”

“How gratifying.”

“Oh, it is, it is! Of course, yours is a special case. We have no intention of auctioning _you_ off – the information you carry in that clever head of yours is far too valuable to to sell. Rest assured, THRUSH will put it to good use.”

Napoleon shrugged. “You'll have to get it first.”

“By hook or by crook, we will.”

He took a step toward Visconti, but the click of a THRUSH rifle stopped him. He held out his hands, a gesture of acquiescence. “Your little plan seems awfully complicated,” he remarked casually. “Why not simply capture us both at the townhouse?”

“And have UNCLE breathing down our necks looking for you?” Visconti shook his head. “That would have been foolhardy. No, a more elegant solution was called for. Having you personally witness Kuryakin's murder convinced UNCLE that he was indeed dead, and your overwhelming grief guaranteed that you would be placed on medical leave. The hints regarding his resurrection were enough to make you follow the trail of bread crumbs we laid. Now we have you both, and no one at UNCLE is the wiser.”

"The tarot card reader?"

"Of course."

Napoleon had to admit that THRUSH's plan had been spectacularly effective. “Sooner or later I'll be missed.”

 Visconti laughed. “Later, I should think. The beauty of it is, with Kuryakin 'dead' and you on medical leave, no one's even looking for you.”

 _He doesn't know about April and Mark!_ The realization gave him hope. “Why the charade with the fake apartments?” he asked. “It served no purpose as far as I can see.”

“A personal indulgence – I enjoy toying with my prey on occasion. Frankly, I thought you'd be more of a challenge.” He rubbed his hands together. “And now I'm afraid it's time to get down to business.”

Napoleon sighed. “Business?”

“Don't sound so surprised. We are in the 'business' of gathering information here. I want yours. Everything the CEA of UNCLE New York knows.”

“You know I'll never give it to you.”

“Fortunately for me, I don't need your permission to take it.”

Napoleon felt a needle prick his arm, and the world faded to black.

*

He woke to find himself strapped to a metal gurney. A steel band encircled his skull, with wires and leads that connected to various portions of the giant computer. An IV dripped a clear liquid into his veins.

“Ah, awake at last, I see!” Visconti leaned over Napoleon's body to tighten the restraints. “I imagine you're wondering what that contraption on your head will do?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“'Crossed my mind?!'” Visconti began to laugh. “'Crossed my mind?!' Oh, that's a good one!” He wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “Tell me, do you recall a scientist named Wilhelm Seltzman?”

“Doesn't ring a bell. Should I?”

“He was a German scientist. Brilliant, eccentric. Unconventional. Shortly before his death, he perfected a rather remarkable device he called a “mind-swapping machine.”

“A what?”

 “A mechanism by which the minds of two human beings could be exchanged, Subject A inhabiting Subject B's body, and _vice versa_.”

Napoleon forced a laugh. “Pure science fiction. It can't be done.”

“I assure you, it can.” Visconti's eyes glittered with excitement. “Imagine if you will, the body of a trusted agent – _your_ body, for example – walking into UNCLE Headquarters, carrying within it the mind of a top THRUSH agent. What a coup it would be – a THRUSH at the head of UNCLE New York, and no one able to tell the difference.”

“They're not so easily fooled. They'd know it wasn't me.”

“Not with your voice print, fingerprints and retinal scan all a perfect match.”

“It'll take more than a set of fingerprints to fool UNCLE,” Napoleon countered easily. “Even if you accomplish the transfer, it won't matter. THRUSH has tried using doubles before. They failed. The doubles were detected and neutralized.”

“Not this time. You see, _I'm_ the one who will be taking over your body. Not some lookalike actor with no motivation, zero talent and two weeks to rehearse.”

“You?”

“And why not?” Visconti drew himself up, looking every inch the leading man. “I've spent the last _ten years_ studying every detail of your life. Every mission. Every conquest. Every habit you've ever formed and every one you've broken. I've even made it a point to bed some of your women. Ah, the stories they tell about you – ” He chuckled at some private joke. “It's safe to say that I know everything there is to know about you. Maybe even more than you know about yourself.”

A chill began to work its way up Napoleon's spine.

“Once I secure my place inside the organization, it will be a simple matter to assassinate Waverly, and assume the position of Number One, Section One. I can dismantle UNCLE from the inside out. They won't suspect a thing.”

_Jesus._

Visconti climbed onto the second gurney, and a technician attached a steel band to his skull. “Places, everyone.” He slipped on a pair of goggles.

Visconti's minions scurried about, taking last minute readings and making preparations to initiate the transfer procedure. A nurse fitted a pair of goggles over Napoleon's eyes. “The flash at the moment of transference is bright enough to burn your optic nerve,” she explained helpfully. “We don't want that now, do we?”

Napoleon ignored her. He struggled against the leather straps, but there was no give. _Think!_ he ordered his suddenly sluggish mind. _The IV – they're drugging me!_

“Machine at full power,” the head technician announced.

“Excellent. Begin transfer.” Visconti saluted. “Be seeing you, Number Eleven.”

The machine hummed and spat, and began emitting a deafening feedback screech. The steel band around Napoleon's skull grew warm, and then hot. A sizzling, snarling arc of energy formed in the space above his head. The air crackled with electricity. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. The hair on his arms stood straight up.

The beam coalesced.

_Illya, I'm s_

Fired.

_*/*/*/_

**Chapter 17**

“Once upon a time –”

Illya sat up with a shout. He looked around. He was back in Medical, and he wanted to scream in frustration. They’d been close, so close to escape.

The door slid open and Nellie… No, what was she? … Number Forty-Eight ran in. “Illya, what’s wrong?”

“Leave me alone,” he growled and pulled back as far as he could in the bed. That’s when he realized he wasn’t strapped down.

Number Forty-Eight retreated a step, and then another. “Agent, get Dr. Stokes and let Mr. Waverly know that Mr. Kuryakin is awake.” She turned back. “Illya, it’s okay… you’ve been through a lot.”

The door opened and April burst in. She hurried to his side, hugging Illya so tightly, he thought his ribs would break. Mark was right behind her.

“Ah, mate, it’s good to see you awake. You had us worried.”

Illya did his best to keep from hyperventilating. He wanted to believe this was real, he truly did.

Waverly appeared at the door, his face tired and drawn. “Mr. Kuryakin, you look to be in remarkable shape for a corpse.”

“Thank you, sir.” Illya looked around. “Where’s Napoleon?”

"Under sedation in the next room, but otherwise none the worse for wear.”

“And Visconti?”

“Section Three has him in a holding cell. He's been unconscious since he was brought in.”

"I am looking forward to talking to him when he wakes up.”

Dr. Stokes, another familiar face, entered the room, and Illya felt the iron band in his gut release just a bit more. "Nice to see you back among the living," the doctor remarked easily.

“Illya, what happened?” April sat beside him, still holding his hand. “After Napoleon parachuted in, it felt as if we waited for days for a signal. We’d just about given up when we spotted you in that truck, being chased by...I don't even know what to call them...”

“They are called Rovers, and they are weapons.” He could still hear the things roaring as they circled the truck containing the unconscious forms of Napoleon and Visconti, rescued moments earlier with the help of Number Six.

“Guess no one ever warned them about the danger of chopper blades.”

Illya remembered one of the Rovers screaming and exploding. “I wondered what happened.” The other two Rovers backed off, and that was when Illya saw the helicopter with April at the controls. Suddenly Mark was beside him, helping him carry Napoleon and Visconti to the helicopter.

“Come with us,” Illya said.

Number Six shook his head. He glanced over his shoulder as the Rovers regrouped and began to approach again. “Go! I’ll lead them off."

"But you'll be..."

"Caught? Don't bet on it." He popped the clutch. "Now go!"

Illya raced back to the helicopter, climbed on board and watched as the nightmare called the Village dropped from view.

“Why wouldn’t he come with you, Illya?” April asked. “That man driving the truck, why didn’t he leave with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who was he?”

“A friend, I think.” _Trust no one, not matter how sweetly they sing._ Number Six's warning came back to Illya, and he managed a small smile. “Dr. Stokes, when can I get out of here?”

“How about as soon as all these people leave so I can check you out? The headshrinkers are going to want to talk to you as soon as you feel up to it.” 

“Can I see Napoleon?” Illya unbuttoned his pajama top.

“In five minutes if you cooperate.” Illya did just that, and in less time than that, he was wrapped in a robe and standing by Napoleon’s bedside. Illya touched the gauze wrapped about Napoleon’s forehead.

“Why is he still unconscious?”

“We don’t know. Visconti is unconscious as well.” The doctor scanned Napoleon's chart. “Vitals are good; everything’s stable. Aside from the burns on his temples, we can’t find anything wrong with him. The doctor placed a hand on Illya’s shoulder. “Go home and get some rest. I'll send word if his condition changes.”

“I am not leaving until I know he’s alright.”

The doctor had expected as much. “Tell you what. How about I get an orderly to bring in a bed for you?”

Illya smiled and nodded. “That would be perfect.”

“Go and get something to eat. They tell me the shepherd’s pie isn’t too bad today.”

The trip to the Canteen was an experience of normality. Everything was right, everyone was right. So, why did everything feel so wrong?

*/*/*/

**[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/80076) **

**Chapter 18**

Bram Visconti opened his eyes. He lay quietly under the covers, gathering his wits about him, allowing memory to return in bits and pieces. He was relieved to see that he was alone for the moment. _Good. That meant he had a little time._

He looked around, careful not to make too much noise. It wouldn't do to alert the nurses just yet. His head ached and his vision was still blurry, but he recognized the room, with its sleek steel walls and state-of-the-art life support equipment, immediately. UNCLE's Medical Wing.

 _Yes of course!_ It was coming back to him now – Kuryakin's staged death at the townhouse, Solo's capture, the mind swapping machine.He touched his face with trembling hands, felt the unfamiliar furrow between the brows, and the straight, patrician nose, so unlike his own. Full lips. Strong jaw. Cleft in the chin. _Was it possible? Had the machine really worked?_

He checked the hospital ID band on his wrist. _Solo, N. (Dr. Martin Stokes.)_

_He'd done it! He'd switched bodies with Napoleon Solo!_

The door slid open, and a nurse entered. She gasped when she saw him, and nearly dropped the IV bag she was carrying. A slow smile spread across her face. “Why Mr. Solo, honey, you're awake!”

Visconti glanced at the name tag on the woman's uniform. _Connie Jacobs, RN._ He adopted one of the agent's patented, sexy smolders. “Well now, I couldn't pass up the chance to say hello to my favorite nurse now, could I?”

“Oh, Napoleon!” Connie blushed seven shades of pink. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He reached out, took her hand. “Not all the girls – only the prettiest ones.”

If it was possible, the nurse's blush deepened. “We were so worried when you didn't wake up. Dr. Stokes tried everything!” She brushed a lock of hair away from his face. “What happened to you anyway? And however did you manage to find Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Now Connie, you know I can't talk about it. Regulations. You understand.”

“Oh, of course.” She re-tucked his covers and plumped his pillow. “I'll just let Dr. Stokes know you're awake.” She hurried from the room.

_Silly creature._

Dr. Stokes appeared moments later, accompanied by Alexander Waverly. Several nurses stood at the threshold, peering in and whispering to one another. Someone giggled. Waverly resolutely shut the door.

“Good to have you back,” Dr. Stokes remarked as he checked the readout on the heart monitor.

Visconti grinned the way he felt Solo would have. “It's good to be back.” He allowed a tinge of concern to creep into his voice. “But where's Illya? Is he okay? He's not hurt, is he?”

“No, no, he's fine. He's been sitting at your bedside these last two days. I finally convinced him to get something to eat at the Canteen. I've sent one of the nurses to let him know you're awake, so he should come barreling in here any time now.” He pressed his stethoscope to Visconti's chest and listened for several seconds. “Strong and regular. A bit rapid, but that's to be expected. Tell me, how are you feeling?”

Visconti shrugged. “A headache the size of the Grand Canyon, but otherwise, right as rain and very glad to be home.”

“No other problems? Blurred vision? Nausea? Ringing in the ears?”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“Excellent. We'll run a full battery of tests tomorrow, after you've had a chance to catch up on your rest. Meanwhile, I'll have Nurse Jacobs bring you something for the pain.”

Waverly stepped forward, and Visconti reminded himself to be very careful. The head of UNCLE New York might look like somebody's kindly old grandfather, but he was no fool. He'd been standing in the background for the past few minutes, observing so quietly that Visconti had almost forgotten he was there. _Dangerous!_

“I understand Bram Visconti was behind the plot to capture the two of you.”

“Yes sir. We were taken to some sort of interrogation facility called The Village.”

“The Village. Yes, Mr. Kuryakin mentioned that. I don't suppose you've any idea who runs the place?”

Visconti did his best to look contrite. “No sir. Maybe Illya – ”

“Yes, quite.” Waverly peered down at his CEA. “He tells me that he found you, unconscious, strapped to a gurney beside some sort of machine. What do you recall about that?”

The THRUSH _wunderkindt_ pursed his lips thoughtfully. “The details are still a bit fuzzy, sir. According to Visconti, the machine was designed to break down an agent's subconscious firewalls, and retrieve any secrets in their possession.” He frowned uncertainly. “I think the machine might have – malfunctioned. Blown up. I remember smoke and an electrical smell. People running around. Visconti was knocked out by the blast. I guess the smoke got to me, and I blacked out. I don't remember anything more.”

“I see.” Waverly reached for his pipe, but stopped at a warning glance from Dr. Stokes. “Just a few more questions – ”

“That's enough for now, Alexander,” the doctor declared firmly. “Your agent needs his rest.”

“If you insist, Doctor,” Waverly acceded with a sigh. He didn't look happy about it. “Get some sleep, Mr. Solo. We'll talk again tomorrow.”

“Sleep?” Visconti feigned a laugh. “I feel like I've had enough sleep to last a lifetime, sir! Frankly, I'm anxious to get back to work.”

“In due course, Mr. Solo. In due course.” Waverly paused, his hand on the button that would release the door. He frowned. “It's good to have you back.”

“Good to be back, sir.”

*

Napoleon Solo woke. His head throbbed, and his teeth felt as though they were being ripped out at the roots. Every muscle in his body ached. _Christ. What the hell happened?_

He sat up too fast, and the room began to spin alarmingly. His entire body felt heavy, weighed down. His arms and legs refused to obey him. _Did somebody get the name of the bus that ran over me?_

There was an odd, chemical taste in his mouth. A flash of memory – the lab. Visconti's lab. The mind-swapping machine. The horrible screeching sound, and the smell of ozone as the energy arced above him. And then –

Napoleon looked down at his hands. His _large_ hands!  Nearly as large as Illya's, with long, tapering fingers. Smooth, not calloused as his hands should have been. And his body seemed taller somehow, and rounder. He patted his belly – soft and fleshy, with a slight paunch around the middle. Napoleon began to shiver as realization set in.

He glanced at his surroundings for the first time. A Section Three medical cell. He was back at UNCLE, locked in one of their holding pens. _They thought he was Visconti!_ And if he was here, that meant that Visconti was –

 _– walking the corridors of UNCLE HQ!_   The bastard had done it, had switched their bodies.

He touched his face, his alien, unfamiliar face, surprised to find it wet with tears.

*/*/*/

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/79440)

**Chapter 19**

Illya placed a hand on the wall of the elevator, comforted by the vibration. He'd been in the Canteen, methodically working his way through something brown, when Karen spotted him, her face flushed with excitement. The fact that she was smiling made Illya's heart soar. 

“He’s awake?”

“And asking for you. Dr. Stokes sent me.”

Illya dropped his napkin onto the tray. “Let’s go.”

He headed for the elevator. Karen barely caught up with him before they were away again, taking the elevator down into the bowels of UNCLE HQ. Now he regretted the action, and wished he had opted for the stairs. This was taking way too long.

The doors opened, and Illya saw Dr. Stokes exiting Napoleon’s room. They met halfway and Stokes was grinning.

“How is he?”

“Good. Complaining about a headache and asked for pain medication, so we gave him something to take care of it. It's going to make him sleepy, so it’s best if he stays here overnight.”

Illya nodded. He saw another doctor step out of a nearby door. It was a special Section Three medical holding cell, and too good for the likes of Visconti. “And our prisoner?”

“He’s awake, but disoriented. He asked for you.”

“Me?”

“Several times. Maybe he wants to apologize for trying to kill you.”

“Let him cool his heels. He isn’t going anywhere.” Illya headed for Napoleon's room.

He stepped in, and took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the lower lighting. Napoleon was propped up on some pillows, stroking his cheek. Illya thought it an odd gesture. “You up for visitors?” he asked softly.

Napoleon quickly dropped his hand. He looked at Illya, a crooked smile forming on his lips. The smile was familiar, but it was Napoleon’s eyes that drew Illya’s attention. There was something different about them. Nothing Illya could put his finger on. They just seemed… wrong, as if Napoleon was seeing him for the first time, or trying to place him in a room of look-alikes.

_Probably disoriented from the medication._

“It’s good to see you alive.” It was Napoleon’s voice and yet it wasn’t. The cadence seemed different somehow. Illya chastised himself for his doubt. The Village must have taken a greater toll on him than he realized, because Napoleon was the one person in the world he _could_ trust.

“And you, my friend.” Illya squeezed his partner’s shoulder, and Napoleon tensed. There was no way of knowing what sort of torture he’d gone through. Illya reminded himself. He remembered how, after one particular brutal affair, the color blue had made him physically ill for days after his rescue. It had taken a hypnotist and two headshrinkers to unravel that little mystery. He moved back to give Napoleon some breathing room. Agents didn’t like to be crowded. “How did you find me?” he asked. “I was told everyone thought me dead.”

“Would you believe a gypsy Tarot reader? She told me you were alive and that I needed to find you, so I grabbed a chopper and flew to your rescue.”

“But how? I was told the island was impossible to find.”

“I found you, didn’t I? Just as you found me.”

“Yes, strapped to a gurney and barely alive. What happened, Napoleon?”

“I told everything to Waverly. He can fill you in. I hate to ask this, but I’m a little tired right now. Could we talk about this later?”

“How insensitive of me. Of course. Get some rest.” Illya watched Napoleon turn toward the wall. That was disquieting. Agents never turned their backs to a door, not even a supposedly safe one. Shaking his head, Illya slipped quietly from the room. There must have been an odd expression on his face because Dr. Stokes caught his arm.

“Illya, what’s wrong? I couldn’t get you out of there and now that he’s awake, you’re leaving?”

“He asked me to go. He wanted to sleep.”

“That’s odd. I suppose talking to Mr. Waverly was too tiring for him.” Shoulders shrugged. “Maybe the meds are kicking in. He’ll sleep for about eight hours now.” Stokes nodded to the other room. “Visconti’s still awake, though, if you want to question him. He looks like hell, but he's refused anything for the pain.” Illya opened his mouth and then closed it. “What?” Stokes asked.

“I almost said that sounds just like Napoleon.” He offered a smile. “Perhaps this has taken a greater toll on me than I thought.”

“Get some sleep. I'll send Nellie to wake you when Napoleon resurfaces.” 

"I don't need to sleep."

“Don't be ridiculous, Illya. You've been through a lot these past few weeks. Your body needs time to heal.”

“Perhaps you're right.” Illya smiled as April and Mark walked up to join them. “A few hours sleep won't hurt. Thank you, Doctor.”

“We heard Napoleon was awake,” Mark said as the doctor departed.

“Mark, leave him alone." April ran her hand up and down Illya’s arm, her expression one of honest concern. "How are you holding up?”

Have you seen Napoleon?”

“Not since he was brought in. Why?”

“he is awake and yet… I’m not certain that he is… well.”

“The doctor said he checked out fine.”

“Yes, I know. That is what bothers me." Illya hesitated. "Have you ever known Napoleon to request pain medication?”

The partners exchanged puzzled looks. Agents avoided drugs. Drugs took control away, and agents were all about control. “First time for everything, I suppose. The pain must be very bad.

“A headache.”

They moved into the waiting room, and Illya sank into the unrelenting plastic of an uncomfortable chair. April went to the coffee machine and returned with a cupful of murky brown liquid. She passed it to Illya and drew another for herself.

Illya stared at the cup as if the heat rising from it held answers. “I keep meaning to ask you this, but somehow I keep forgetting. How did the two of you manage to find us?”

Mark made a rude noise. “Find? Hell, Illya, we’d been circling the island for days. Napoleon parachuted in. We set up camp on the other side. He had a transponder implanted in his neck,  and we kept track of him that way. When he started moving fast to the perimeter of the town, we decided to get airborne and that’s when we spotted you.”

“He also said something about a gypsy?”

“A Tarot card reader. We think she may have been in cahoots with the locals there on the island, but she gave us the clues that helped us find you.” April set her coffee aside. “Have you spoken with Visconti yet?”

“No. The doctor said he was asking for me.”

“That a little strange, don’t you think?”

“Very,” Illya muttered. “I cannot imagine what he expects to...”

Mark’s communicator chirped. “Slate here.”

“Mr. Slate, could you and Miss Dancer join me in my office?” Waverly’s voice left no room for argument.

“We’re on our way, sir.”

April stood, but didn’t move. “Illya, are you going to be okay?”

He nodded wearily. “I’m going to get some sleep, but first I had better check on our guest.”

“Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

“You saved us, that’s enough.” Illya watched them walk away.

The Section Three agents stiffened as Illya approached, and he resisted the urge to salute. This whole affair was at an end. They had achieved their purpose and returned, alive and whole. Why didn’t he feel relieved? Why did he have this nagging doubt that something was wrong? It buzzed in his ear, and dug at his subconscious.

Illya entred the cell, and fixed a glare at the man in the bed. The eyes were gray and narrow with pain, but there was something so…

“Illya!” The eyes brightened. “My God, it's good to see you alive!”

“No thanks to you. How does it feel to know your plan failed miserably?”

A heavy sigh. “Oh, Illya.”

“Is that all you have to say? Because you are the one who asked to talk to me.”

“I'm...not... Visconti's machine...a brain exchange, his for mine.” The voice was weak. Apparently Visconti didn’t tolerate what had happened as well as Napoleon had. Illya took comfort in that fact.

Illya laughed. “You must think me a fool.”

“No, I was the Fool. You were the Page of Swords… ask April. She can tell you.”

“There will be plenty of time to chat, Visconti. You and I are about to become very good friends.”

“Not...Visconti.”

“I beg to differ. Unless THRUSH has its records wrong, you are Bram Visconti.”

“Not...Visconti...”

“Then who the hell are you?” There was only silence. Illya made a face. _The bastard must have passed out_. He started toward the door, only to pause at the soft sound of a voice.

“Once in Prague, we got stinking drunk and you told that the inscription inside your wedding ring used to say, My Life, My Love, but it was worn away. You asked what you should replace it with and I came up with something rather bawdy involving Nurse Nellie…”

Illya spun, his mouth dropping open. “Napoleon?”

*/*/*/

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/79676)

**Chapter 20**

As April and Mark watched with growing concern, Waverly completed his pipe-lighting ritual and sat back, puffing furiously. Something was wrong – that much was apparent from The Old Man's dyspeptic expression – but they knew better than to ask what it was. He would tell them when he was ready, and not before.

Waverly's bushy brows came together in a frown. “I've read your reports,” he began at last. “Frankly, I'm hard pressed to believe that a place like The Village could exist without UNCLE knowing about it. A fairy tale village, hidden from prying eyes, where agents are broken beyond repair? Crack agents reduced to placid, fearful sheep, their information extracted and sold to the highest bidder?” He shook his head. “It boggles the mind. And then there are the bizarre events you describe seeing first-hand: the pack of giant, floating beach balls attacking your helicopter, for example.”

April answered for the both of them. “It's what happened, sir.”

“Hmm, yes.” Waverly sat back, puffing thoughtfully. “Putting that aside for the moment, I'm interested in the details of how you finally managed to locate Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin. According to your reports, they were hidden out of sight, in the back of a floral delivery truck driven by a mysterious man named –” He consulted his notes. “– Number Six.”

April and Mark hesitated. A nervous glance passed between them. _Which of us is going to tell him?_

“Miss Dancer? I trust you have not lost your voice?”

April snapped to attention. “No sir.” She collected her thoughts. “Prior to our arrival on the island, Dr. Stokes implanted a tiny transponder under the skin behind Napoleon's left ear. We knew that once he parachuted in, we were likely to be separated from one another for a significant amount of time. A transponder was the best way to keep track of his movements, and to trace his location in the event that he was captured.”

Waverly nodded. “And when you managed to locate Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin using the transponder, was Visconti also present?”

“Yes sir. Both he and Napoleon were unconscious in the back of the truck.”

“I see. And what explanation was given for their unconscious state?”

“Illya mentioned an explosion in the laboratory where Napoleon was being held. Presumably they got caught in the blast.”

Waverly leaned forward. “Mr. Kuryakin found the two of them, then?”

“Yes sir.”

“How did he behave afterward, in the helicopter? Did he seem – himself?”

April  and Mark exchanged puzzled  glances. “Illya was – Illya.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing.” April paused. “Sir, if I may ask, what's this about?”

“Patience, Miss Dancer.” Waverly reached into a drawer, and retrieved a tiny object. “Is this the transponder?”

April paled slightly, and nodded.

“You're sure?”

She took it from him, turned it over in her hands. “Yes sir, that's the model we used. It's a prototype, one of a kind. I – uh, borrowed it from the Lab – ”

“So Dr. Wu informs me. Medical also confirms your story -- Dr. Stokes removed the device from behind Mr. Solo's left ear two days ago.” Waverly paused to relight his pipe, which had gone out. 

"I'm sorry for the deception, sir," April said.

Waverly harrumphed. “We'll discuss the list of your transgressions at a later date, Miss Dancer, including, but not limited to, borrowing the transponder, and your unauthorized absence from UNCLE for the past week.”

“Yes sir,” she replied meekly.

“Don't think you're off the hook either, Mr. Slate.”

“No sir.”

“At the moment however, we have a larger mystery on our hands.”

“Oh?” _Thank heaven for small favors!_

“You see, when Doctor Stokes removed the transponder, he noted that it had ceased functioning.”

"Well, sir, it is a prototype, after all..."

"The mechanism was undamaged. It should have been working perfectly. And yet it was not."

April frowned. “That transponder was specifically keyed to respond to Napoleon's brainwaves. Nothing short of his death should have stopped it from working.”

“Nevertheless, the transponder no longer functions. What do you make of that, Miss Dancer?”

“I can't – I mean, I don't understand –”

“April,” Mark broke in, “remember what Illya told us downstairs?”

Waverly eyed the junior agent with canny interest. “Go on, Mr. Slate. What, precisely, did Mr. Kuryakin tell you?”

Mark sat up a bit straighter. “We were down in Medical a while ago, and Illya was there. He'd been in to see Napoleon, and he seemed rather – unsettled by the visit.”

“Why unsettled?”

“I know it sounds silly, but –”

Waverly snapped. “Out with it.”

“Napoleon requested pain medication. For a headache.”

“A headache...?” Waverly turned away, gathering his thoughts. He stared out the window, watching as the New York skyline faded into darkness. His pipe lay forgotten in his hand.

“Sir?” April inquired softly, “will that be all?”

“In a kinder, gentler world, perhaps.” Waverly slid a dossier across the conference table. “Have you ever heard of a scientist named Wilhelm Seltzman?” he asked.

*

Visconti lay in bed, waiting for the combination of sleep and pain medication to dull the miserable throbbing in his head. _Soon_ , he thought and felt a surge of pleasure at the thought. _Soon._

_*/*/*/_

_**[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/84858) ** _

**Chapter 21**

llya watched Visconti...no, Napoleon...sleep, and tried to understand. He had no doubt now, that the mind in Napoleon’s body was Bram Visconti's, but how to right this wrong was bedeviling him. He had no idea how such a thing was even possible. Illya was just glad he had acted on his initial instinct to bring Visconti with him. Otherwise Napoleon would still be trapped in that little bit of hell called The Village.

Napoleon thrashed, moaning in his sleep. Illya rubbed the fleshy forearm, cringing at the strangeness. It felt nothing like his partner’s arm.

He made soothing sounds. Hush, Napoleon, we will make this right,” he whispered. “ _I_ will make this right.” Not that he had a clue how he was going to do that, but it didn’t matter. Napoleon settled at Illya’s touch.  His hand lingered until Napoleon’s breathing was deep and regular again.

Illya rose wearily and stretched. His back ached from sitting in the chair, and he massaged the base of his spine as he walked slowly to the door. He cracked his neck and straighteneded his tie before tapping once, then twice, then once again. After a brief delay it opened, and he stepped into the brightly lit corridor. He blinked furiously until his eyes adjusted.

Illya recognized one of the two Section Three men flanking the door, and gave him a half smile.

“Mr. Lewis, how are you?” Hirum Lewis had taken Illya’s Ordinance and Explosives class and done well. Illya held out a hand, and Hirum shook it firmly, as if trying to impress Illya with its surety and strength.

“I’m well, sir. How goes the interrogation? Is he talking?”

“Off and on, I’m afraid. Whatever happened to him on the island has seriously weakened the man. He is unconscious more than he’s awake. When he is awake, he babbles nonsense.”

The other man laughed. “Gone off the deep end, has he?”

“Mr…?”

“Walker, Teo Walker. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Hirum has been telling me all about you.”

“Are you new here?”

“I just returned from a London assignment. I was replacing Mr. Drake until they could appoint someone to take his position full time.”

Illya frowned, mentally going through the list of London personnel. “Drake? I don’t…”

“John Drake, he was London's Section Three head until he disappeared a few years ago.”

“It must have been after I left.” Illya looked toward the other occupied room. “Is the doctor with Mr. Solo?” He tried to keep any sign of contempt from his voice.

“He just left.”

“Thank you.” Illya took a step and turned back. “Keep up the good work, and do not let anyone other than Dr. Stokes or myself into that room."

“Should we move him down to a maximum security cell?” The Section Three agents exchanged knowing looks. No one every escaped from an UNCLE maximum security cell, except Napoleon Solo.

“His medical condition is still too shaky. Perhaps tomorrow we will move him, but in the meantime take care of him for me.”

“No one gets past us, sir.” Lewis nodded, his voice firm and committed.

“Good man.” Illya shook their hands again and squared his shoulders. It was time to face the demon.

Pausing in front of Napoleon’s room, Illya took a deep breath and put his best poker face on. He knocked once and entered.

The real Visconti turned in the bed to face him. Illya’s heart ached with the sense of familiarity of the expression and the smile. It was his partner and yet it wasn’t. The eyes were cold and calculating.

“How are you feeling, old friend?”

“Still a little tired, but the medication is helping with the headache.”

“Excessive bed rest will do that. You need to get out of here. I shall talk to the doctor about releasing you to my care. We can stay at your apartment or mine. I suspect you will be more comfortable at yours and your guest bed is easier on the back.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out. Dr. Stokes said I should be cleared for duty in another couple of days. It’s just as easy to stay here.”

“Nonsense. After you nursed me through the measles and that case of flu last year, it’s the least I can do.” Illya had had neither. The real Napoleon would know that; Visconti wouldn’t.

The eyes narrowed slightly, as if unsure if this was a bluff or not. “You don’t need to take care of me.”

Illya nodded and waved his hand. The room was filled with flower arrangements, all of them bugged by him personally. “You’ve obviously had plenty of offers from more comely nursemaids. All these flowers are from your many admirers, I suppose?”

The man nodded happily. “What can I say? I’m universally loved.”

“I will let you rest then. Perhaps I can convince the doctor to release you to light duty. I have three stacks of reports waiting for me, and I could use your help.”

“Thanks.” There was a viciousness to Napoleon’s smile and Illya knew the man was thinking of all the trouble he was going to create once he got his hands on UNCLE”s secrets.

Illya nodded again. “I will see what I can do.” There was no answer, not that Illya expected one.

Stepping back out into the hallway, he nearly collided with Dr. Stokes. “Ah, Illya, I was just coming to see you. I’ve been hearing some very interesting rumors. You want to put them to bed?”

“Yes, but not out here.” The nurses’ station was but a few steps away and the two Section Three agents hung on every word being spoken.

“My office is right around the corner. We can talk there.” Stokes seemed eager to lead the way. The room was a mirror image of just about every other office in the building. “Coffee?”

“No, thank you.” Illya watched the doctor go through the familiar routine of pouring coffee and risking that first sip. “You said you’d been hearing rumors.”

Stokes settled behind his desk and pushed a stack of medical reports out of his way. He fiddled with a pen. “Well, not rumors, _per se_. Connie, the day nurse, said that Napoleon has been flirting with her.”

“That is hardly cause for alarm. Napoleon flirts with everyone.”

“I happen to know that Napoleon usually avoids flirting with my nurses… unlike other agents.” He tried to repress a smile as Illya shifted uncomfortably. “He told me once that he didn’t want to get comfortable with anyone who could insert a catheter line.”

“That sounds like vintage Napoleon. It’s a well known fact that very few women can resist Napoleon when he sets his mind to something. Perhaps he sees it as his way of escaping.”

“That’s just it, Illya. I’ve treated Napoleon for everything from a sprained ankle to a gunshot wound to a concussion. I usually have to tie him to the bed to keep him there, and he’s always rushing off the first chance he gets. Not this time.”

“Perhaps my rescue took more out of him than he is willing to admit. He undertook a near Sisyphean task to find me. If he hadn't convinced April and Mark to help, I would still be there.”

“The odd thing is, he hasn’t asked about any of you, not even once. I'm telling you, Illya, whoever is in that bed isn’t Napoleon.”

“His blood work says otherwise.”

“He might be an exact copy of Napoleon, but it’s not him." Stokes' eyes narrowed. "But you already know that, don't you?” 

Illya took a deep breath. He hadn't said anything about the switch to anyone, but perhaps now was the time to break that silence. “How do I put this?”

“I’ve found that a direct route is best.”

Illya’s eyes widened at the voice. In a heartbeat, he was out of his chair, his weapon drawn.

Number Six stepped from the shadows of the room. “Put that down, Twenty-Two.”

“What are you doing here?” The pistol didn’t waver.

“It’s all right, son.” Waverly’s hand covered Illya’s and lowered both it and the weapon. “Mr. Drake is here at my request.”

“How… wait, Drake? The Section Three man who vanished?”

“Not exactly vanished.” The man’s smile was tight. “I prefer 'reassigned.'”

“He knows what happened to Mr. Solo and Visconti.” Waverly continued. “He wants to help.”

Illya stared at his employer, a man he trusted with his life, and then back at Number Six, a man he didn’t trust for a moment. “All right. Talk.”

*/*/*/

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/81534)

**Chapter 22**

Visconti scowled as Dr. Stokes delivered the bad news.

“I'm sorry, Napoleon,” the doctor ad libbed. “I know you were hoping to be discharged this morning, but I'm not satisfied with the results of your latest brain scan. I'm afraid you're going to be with us for another day, at least.”

“It's a damned waste of time,” Visconti grumbled. He caught himself and smiled belatedly. “Sorry, Doc. you know how I hate being cooped up.”

“I believe you've mentioned it a few times.” Dr. Stokes made a notation on the chart, and returned it to its peg at the foot of the bed. “You agents may think of yourselves as invulnerable, but the fact is that you suffered a traumatic brain injury. You were unconscious for two days. You had a concussion, and there was significant swelling in the temporal lobe of your brain. Unfortunately, the swelling hasn't gone down as much as I'd like.”

“But I feel fine,” Visconti insisted.

“I'm glad to hear it. However, 'feeling fine' isn't the only criterion I'm required to use in assessing your condition.” Dr. Stokes paused to change the IV bag and adjust the drip rate. “I know you're disappointed, Napoleon, but you have to understand – I'm responsible for your health. I don't want to see you back in here with a brain bleed. If you really want a clean bill of health, the best thing you can do at the moment is rest. ”

“I'll make sure he follows your orders,” Illya declared firmly.

Visconti grimaced. “Just what I need, a Russian nursemaid.”

“What you need is time to recover, Napoleon, and I am going to see that you get it.”

Visconti gave an exaggerated sigh. “And what am I supposed to do for the next twenty-four hours? Twiddle my thumbs?”

“Grumpy, are we? Perhaps I can bring you a few of the reports on your desk. I have done my best to keep up, but there are a number of delicate matters requiring your attention, and I haven't the necessary clearance to sign off on them.”

 _Reports!_ Visconti practically salivated at the thought of all the information he could glean from those mission reports. _And that fool Kuryakin had just handed him the opportunity on a silver platter!_ He schooled his face into a semblance of gratitude. “Thanks, Illya. You're a lifesaver.”

Illya forced a smile. “I will be back in a few minutes with those files.”

While he waited, Visconti thought about the bullet he would put into Illya's brain. He pictured the look of surprise on the Russian's face, the blue eyes glazing over with the finality of death. _Very soon now,_ he promised himself.

*

Illya motioned Dr. Stokes to the end of the hall. “Is it done?” he asked quietly.

Stokes nodded. The new IV is pumping a powerful sedative into Visconti's system. He should be out for the count in roughly –” He checked his watch. “– ten minutes.”

“Excellent. We need to keep him sedated until the mind-swapping machine gets here. Wait fifteen minutes, and then check to be sure he's out.” Illya turned toward the bank of elevators. “No one is to enter Visconti's room without my personal clearance. If you need me – for any reason whatsoever – do not hesitate to call. I will be in Waverly's office.” The elevator dinged to announce its arrival.

“Illya?”

He turned. “Yes?”

Stokes hesitated. “Do you think UNCLE will be able to retrieve the mind-swapping machine from the island?”

Illya stared at the steel door behind which his friend lay, desperately ill. “If anyone can succeed, it will be April and Mark.” Forcing down his fear, he stepped into the elevator. The doors closed behind him.

*

Visconti hated the thought of waiting another day to put his assassination plans into operation, but there didn't seem to be much he could do about it. _The damned doctor was a bloody tyrant! Maybe he'd put a bullet in his brain, too. And that simpering nurse... what was her...?_

He yawned. His head sank back onto the pillow, and he found himself appreciating its cool softness. His eyelids drooped. Drifted shut. _No!_ He forced them open, wondering why it was suddenly so hard to stay awake. _What...was I...? ...sedating him? Dr. Stokes hadn't... mentioned..._

Like a bolt of lightning, the truth revealed itself. _They know who I am!_

Visconti ripped the IV needle from his arm. He stumbled to the bathroom, cursing, and splashed cold water on his face. It didn't help. _Damn them! They were going to ruin everything!_ Fighting to stay awake, he searched the cabinets, and came up with a vial of methadrine and a syringe. He injected himself with the stimulant, and at last, felt himself begin to revive.

Feeling somewhat clearer, he tackled the problem of how to keep them from realizing that he'd caught on. _The IV. Of course!_ He took the bag to the sink and dumped the contents, replacing the clear liquid with tap water. He rehung the bag, broke the needle in half and climbed back into bed, taping the shortened needle to the inside of his elbow. He closed his eyes – just in time it turned out – for seconds later the door opened, and Dr. Stokes entered the room.

He moved to Visconti's bedside, noting the rolled-back eyes and the deep, even breathing. He checked the drip rate on the IV once more for good measure and, satisfied that his patient would sleep through the night, slipped out as silently as he had come. He hung a 'QUARANTINE' sign on the door to assure that no one entered without permission.

In the darkness, Visconti smiled. They believed he was asleep. No one would bother him for several hours now. _Time to get to work._ He rifled through the cabinets and drawers for the materials he would need to make a homemade version of knockout gas. When it was ready, he would use UNCLE's own air conditioning system to vent the gas into the corridor. The thought pleased him. _It wouldn't be long now._

_*_

Sleep eluded Napoleon Solo. His body felt foreign to him, like living in a house belonging to somebody else. If it wasn't for Illya recognizing him, he might have lost hope.

A sudden jolt of adrenaline surged through his veins, causing the muscles of his arms and legs to contract painfully, the pain mingling with the leaden feeling in his chest. Pain had become a constant companion now, as the body he inhabited – Visconti's body – deteriorated. No one said as much, but he knew the signs – elevated heart rate, trouble breathing, blurred vision. His body was shutting down.

He wondered how much time he had left before the seizures stopped his heart. An UNCLE strike force had been sent to the island to retrieve the mind-swapping machine, but there was no guarantee they would be successful in the attempt, or that the machine could be brought back to New York in time to save him.

Outside the door of his Medical cell, one of the guards coughed. And coughed again. The other said something, and then began to cough as well. A sound like something rubbing against metal – the guard, sliding down the exterior of the door.

 _Gas!_ A moment later, Napoleon was coughing, too. _Don't breathe!_ Realizing that he had only seconds in which to act, he stuffed his blanket into the air conditioning vent, and tied the ends to to the metal bars. It wouldn't keep the gas out for long, but it might just give him enough time to pick the lock on the cell door. He covered his face with his pillow, and set to work, trying to inhale as little of the gas as possible.

*

Visconti gave the knockout gas five minutes to do its work. Once he was sure it had dissipated, he dropped the oxygen tank he'd stolen from the crash cart, and picked up a gun from one of the unconscious guards sprawled in the corridor.

Kuryakin had ruined everything – he and that meddling doctor – but Visconti was nothing if not resourceful.His original plan to kill Waverly and take his place at the head of UNCLE had been thwarted, but there was always room for a backup plan. _If I can't take over UNCLE Headquarters, I'll blow it up._ He giggled at the thought. Waverly would be just as dead, and he'd have taken out Solo and Kuryakin, and a couple-hundred clueless UNCLE agents in the bargain.

“Hold it right there, Visconti.”

 _That voice! His voice!_   Visconti turned, and stared at – himself.

Napoleon Solo stood in the center of the corridor, one hand braced against the wall for support. In his hand he held the second guard's pistol, pointed straight at Visconti's heart. “Put the gun down,” he said.

“You don't look so well, Number Eleven,” Visconti replied boldly. “Let me guess – blinding headache, chest pain, numbness in the extremities – am I getting warm? Tsk tsk. The signs of neuronic incompatibility are all there. I'd estimate you have – maybe – a day or two at most before total collapse. It looks like I got the better half of our bargain.” He began to inch toward the stairwell.

“I said, drop the gun.”

“And If I don't? What are you going to do? Shoot me?” Visconti laughed. He took another step toward the door.

“Stop. I won't warn you again.”

“Be realistic, Number Eleven. I'm betting you're not cold-blooded enough to shoot your own body.”

“You'd lose that bet.” A sudden stabbing pain left Napoleon gasping for breath. His chest felt like a vise was squeezing his ribcage; his legs grew numb. He fought to stay upright.

Visconti saw his chance. He fired, and Napoleon went down, clutching his side.

“Well that was anticlimactic,” Visconti remarked. He pressed the elevator call button. “Be seeing you, Number Eleven.” 

“In. Hell.”

A soft explosion. Visconti's face contorted in surprise. He looked down at his chest, where a bright red stain was beginning to bloom. He stared at it, even as he slid to the ground,  his warm brown eyes glazing over in the finality of death.

The gun fell from Napoleon's hands, smelling of cordite. His eyes closed.

*/*/*/

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/81759)

**Chapter 23**

Illya watched the body that had been his partner crumple to the floor. “Napoleon, what have you done?”

Visconti’s body collapsed to the floor, panting from the exertion. “What had to be done, partner.” Illya went to him even as Stokes knelt over the shot Napoleon. Illya looked back and the doctor shook his head slightly.

“But, Napoleon, with your body dead, you’re trapped.”

“Not for long.” The voice was weak. “Visconti is dying, Illya. Another day, two at the most.”

“No.”

“At least you're sa...” Napoleon took a deep breath. His head lolled back.

“No! “ Illya sobbed, coming apart at the seams. He rocked the lifeless body in his arms. “No, no, no..."

“Shh, it’s okay.” The voice was soft and comforting. It seemed to surround Illya, filling him with a sense of peace. It was achingly familiar. “Everything’s okay now, Illya. I have you.”

There was a sudden pressure and Illya’s head felt as if it exploded. He gasped, and staggered down the thin line between consciousness and oblivion. A gentle breeze blew over his face and he sighed. It became easier to breathe. To sleep would be easy, but, “…so much to do.”

“We've got you, Illya, it’s over.”

A veil seemed to lift from his eyes, and he found himself staring at a visage he knew better than his own. “Na… Napoleon?” He tried to sit up, but his limbs had a mind of their own. “You’re dead. How...?”

Napoleon wiped Illya’s face with his handkerchief. “Not quite yet, so don’t be counting on that promotion anytime soon. Now, be still and we’ll have you out of here.” A movement drew Illya’s attention, and he turned his head. Mark.

“We’ve secured the satrapy, and are rounding everyone up, Napoleon.” He grinned at Illya. “Welcome back, mate.”

“Visconti?” Napoleon was easing electrode cuffs from Illya’s burned wrists. “Tell me he didn’t slip away, Mark.”

“Section Three has him, although he made a good try of it. April had to shoot him in the leg before he slowed down.”

“Remind me to put April in for a commendation.” Napoleon adjusted the blanket over Illya. “Is the helicopter ready?”

“Standing by.”

April came up, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. “We’ve made a report back to Mr. Waverly and the second wave is coming in. It’s good to see you, Illya.” she brushed the sweat-damp hair from his forehead and kissed it. “You had us scared for awhile.”

“What…happened?” Illya’s jaw and ears ached and his head throbbed painfully as Napoleon removed electrodes from Illya’s head. “No Gypsy fortune teller?”

“Gypsy fortune teller? Wow, that must be some potent stuff they were pumping into your veins." Napoleon smiled. "No gypsies, just some nasty THRUSH-induced dreams.” Napoleon held the mask close to Illya’s nose and mouth again. He breathed deeply, letting his mind clear of cobwebs. His right wrist was a mass of pinpricks.

“I thought I had lost you,” Illya murmured.

“I have to admit, the same thought crossed my mind about _you_ ,” Napoleon smiled. “I’m sorry it took so long to find you. You were the proverbial UNCLE needle in a THRUSH haystack.”

Illya turned his attention to the mass of machinery that surrounded him. “What is this thing, Napoleon?”

“Best we can figure, it’s a thought manipulator. According to the scientist we captured, it's able to control the content of a person's dreams. They were trying to get inside your head. ”

“Hoping to ferret out all UNCLE's secrets. Were they successful?”

“We don't think so. If they'd gotten what they wanted, you'd be dead. Maybe we should use the damned thing on Visconti and see what’s scurrying around in that miserable rat-brain of his.”

"Do not tempt me."

Napoleon helped Illya to sit up, and adjusted the blanket around him again. “Hold tight, okay? We wouldn’t want to cause a stampede by accidentally flashing the female agents. I don’t know if their hearts could take it. ”

Illya managed a smile. His head throbbed, but he pushed the pain and nausea aside. He slid off the metal table. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” The door slid open at their approach, and for a moment Illya panicked, half expecting a Rover to be hovering outside, waiting to drag him back to The Village. But it merely opened onto a long gray corridor, and Napoleon was there at his side, draping an arm over his shoulder, his strong right arm around Illya’s waist.

His eyes watered in the bright sunshine, and he turned his face away, blinking furiously to clear them. He shuddered at the sight of the Village, each building painted an artificially bright color against the backdrop of lush foliage and a sparkling sea.

“Hold on, partner. Just another few minutes and we’ll have you out of here,” Napoleon murmured as he helped Illya to the UNCLE helicopter.

“A torture chamber hidden in a garden,” Illya whispered. He looked back towards the green domed building. There was a man standing there. He raised one hand before vanishing into the shadows.

“A gilded cage is still a cage.”

“And a prisoner is never a free man, no matter how easily he comes and goes.” Illya accepted a hand up from a Section Three agent and settled into one of the passenger seats, Napoleon at his side.

With a roar, the helicopter lifted up and raced away the green rolling hills and across a glittering blue ocean.

*/*/*/

 

(Authors' Note: The mind-swapping machine was featured on an episode of _The Prisoner_ titled “Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling.” The mind manipulator was created for an episode of _The Prisoner_ titled “A, B and C.”)

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
